


The District

by Rave



Category: Football RPF, Pundit RPF, West Wing
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:37:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rave/pseuds/Rave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Iker Casillas, a young state legislator from the great fictional state of Fairfield, launches an unlikely bid for Senate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


PROLOGUE

 

Washington, D.C.  
December, 2009

Xabi called him in December. “I hear you’re in D.C.,” he’d said. “Come get a drink with me,” and though Iker hadn’t been planning to tell anyone he was in town and wasn’t sure how Xabi had found out, he’d said yes. It had been too long.

They met in the bar at the Mayflower hotel. Outside it was starting to snow, and in the dark bar the tiny flakes melted to wetness on Iker’s scarf and face. On Connecticut Avenue a guy with a trumpet was playing a melancholy “Silent Night”; every time the door opened in the music swelled up, then ebbed away again.

Xabi was exquisitely punctual, as usual, although five weeks out from the election he still had that red-rimmed campaigner’s pallor, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He nodded hello to Iker, slid onto the bar stool in a way that made it clear he’d been in many times before, and ordered two glasses of the 16-year Glenfiddich.

“Congratulations on your loss,” Iker said when they were settled. A group of suited guys in a deep mahogany booth at one oak-paneled corner of the room were looking at him -- no, at Xabi -- and whispering to each other.

“Thank you,” Xabi said, a corner of his mouth curving up. He took a long swallow of his scotch.

“I mean it. You should never, ever have done that well. You should have crashed and burned. Running Rafa Benitez in the Jersey seventh, again? Should’ve had your asses handed to you, man, and you made it a nailbiter.”

“I know,” Xabi said. “Believe me.”

“Well, cheers,” Iker said. He knocked his glass against Xabi’s. “To the newest hotshot insider in D.C.” They drank. The trumpeter outside had moved on to “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.”

“I saw your photo in the Hill's Hot List, by the way,” Iker said, luxuriating a little in the warm glow of whisky. “Very dapper. Fourteenth-best-looking guy in D.C. -- not bad. My neighbor’s kid has it taped inside her locker, next to Nick Jonas.”

“Look,” Xabi said abruptly, swiveling on his barstool. “I want to ask you something. How much longer do you want to do state politics?”

“Well,” Iker said, and while he was still thinking of what the hell he was going to say Xabi went on, “I’m asking because I want you to run for Senate. U.S. Senate, I mean.”

Iker, who had just been lifting his drink for a sip, swallowed half a glass of premium single-malt Scotch. His chest and throat burst briefly into flames, and when he stopped coughing -- and Xabi stopped pounding him helpfully on the back -- he croaked, “What.”

“I want you to run against Wayne Rooney in two years,” Xabi said, signaling the bartender for another round. “And I want you to win.”

Iker gaped at him. “You’re insane.”

“I’m really not,” Xabi said. “Think back. I know we haven’t seen each other in a while, but I haven’t changed. I am deeply, even pathologically, rational.” There was a strange kind of bitterness in his voice.

“This is a fucking joke,” Iker said. “You don’t go from two terms in the statehouse to a Senate seat at the age of thirty.”

“Most people don’t,” Xabi agreed. “You’re going to.”

“Why me?” Iker asked. He felt a little like he was hallucinating. “I’m nobody, man, I’m a State senator from Fairfield. You -- you’re huge, don’t you know that? After this campaign? I mean, Jesus. You and Steven Gerrard made Malcolm Glazer fight tooth and nail for the district he’s held for twenty years -- the same place he curb-stomped you four years ago. Rachel Maddow calls you ‘the QB.’ You’ve got bigger fish.”

“I don’t want bigger fish,” Xabi said. “I’m not hungry for them.”

There was a little pause. “So you’re hungry for me,” Iker said.

“That came out a little more sexual than I was intending,” Xabi admitted.

“Why,” Iker said again.

“Because,” Xabi said. He settled an elbow on the bar, lifting his fingers to tick things off. “You’re a successful liberal politician in a red state, everyone likes those. Raul Gonzalez knows you and he loves you, that’ll be huge. You look good on TV; you dress like a fourteen-year-old, but if you cooperate with me that can be a pretty straightforward fix. You have a really great profile for commemorative plateware.”

“Fuck off,” Iker said, punching his arm. “I get why the smooth political operative wants me to run. I’m asking my friend.”

“Okay,” Xabi said seriously. He dropped his hand and looked away for a second. Then he looked back to Iker. “The country needs leaders and you’re a fucking good one. You stand for what you believe in, even when it’s boring or ugly, but you can still make compromises when you have to. You get shit done; it’s not about the Party. You’re passionate, you’re not jaded, which is incredible. And you’re smart. You’re so fucking smart, Iker,” and color was coming to his face, finally; his eyes, the same dark amber as his drink, were sober and aglow. “You’re serious. You matter. You should be in the Senate.” He smiled at last, the warm unrestrained smile that changed his face entirely. “And I can get you there.”

They looked at each other.

Then Xabi nodded toward the opening door, where the strains of the trumpeter floated in. “Hear that?” he said. “Joyful and triumphant...”

“You still can’t sing,” Iker said, but there was an excitement he couldn’t tamp down quickening his heartbeat. Xabi caught it in his eyes and grinned wholeheartedly back, lifting his glass.

“All we faithful,” he said, and they drank to it together.

  


>   
>  For citizens of other states, where genuine bipartisanship seems all too often like a distant dream, there’s something incredible – almost uncanny – about Casillas’s successful stewardship of his uncompromisingly progressive agenda. “I don’t know how he does it,” admits strategist Zinedane Zidane, a partner at D.C. power-firm Perez Valdano LLP. “Republicans in Fairfield treat him like a second Speaker, which ought to infuriate their base. But the thing is, they don’t get hit for it in the elections. They actually do better. That’s the unusual part.” He cracks a smile. “Drugs in the water – that’s my theory.”
> 
>  
> 
> \-- _Danny Concannon, “The Fairfield Model,” Washington Post Sunday Magazine_

 

  


 

DAY ONE.

_Washington, D.C.  
September, 2011_

It had probably been too much to hope that the office would be empty. Sure, it was stupidly early in the morning, but his staff were irritatingly dedicated to their jobs -- one of them in particular. The light in his office was on, and a faint strain of opera music floated from the cracked-open door: Puccini. That was a bad sign. Xabi only listened to Puccini when he was forcing himself to calm down. Iker sighed, folded his paper under one arm, and knocked.

"Go away."

"It's me," Iker said. "I'm coming in."

"Suit yourself." His campaign manager looked up from the press clippings he was highlighting and gave Iker a weary nod of greeting. Then his eyes narrowed. "Are you buying your own clothes again?"

"What?" Iker said defensively, looking down at his shirt. It was plaid. It seemed pretty innocuous.

"Nothing. Just...don't go outside." Xabi, as usual, looked infuriatingly sharp and well-tailored, his tie ever-so-slightly loosened, a peacoat that probably cost more than his rent tossed faux-casually over the back of his chair. A little bit of Saville Row on K Street. "What are you doing here so early?"

"They're renovating the townhouse next door," Iker said, improvising rather ingeniously. "I thought I might get thirty minutes of peace here. Just to read my newspaper, eat my bagel."

"Well, I'm not going to bother you," Xabi said. "But guess who will?"

"Oh no," Iker said, heart sinking. "They're not here, are they?"

"The Eager Beavers," Xabi confirmed. "Bright eyed and bushy-tailed. I gave them some press credentials to Xerox and sort, so that ought to shut them up for a while. After that I'm sure we can find some envelopes to stuff, or some other pointless bullshit. Sorry. Pointless crap. Something pointless."

"I hate youth," Iker said.

"Careful. That's your voter bloc." The phone on Xabi's desk rang. Xabi glanced down at it, made a stifled sound of rage, picked up the receiver and slammed it deliberately down again. After a moment of silence his mobile started to buzz. Xabi fished in his pocket to silence it; then it rang again. He closed his eyes, looking inexpressibly pained.

"Let me guess," Iker said. "Villa?"

"I'm going to beat him to death with his own Pulitzer," Xabi said grimly. "This Mourinho thing. It's fucking -- excuse me -- ridiculous. I've told him we won't comment."

"We can comment," Iker said. He unwrapped his bagel, dodging a brief cascade of sesame seeds. "I'd be happy to say, on the record, 'Shut up, David Villa.' Are you trying to swear less? That's adorable."

"I’m not dealing with another FCC fine," Xabi said, stabbing his highlighter into the press packet in a markedly aggressive way. "I'm just not. I refuse to have Rooney going on Greta Van Susteren saying your staff ‘lacks family values,’ or that we’re 'vulgar' or 'arrogant,' which by the way are just code for 'actually know what they're talking about.'" His phone buzzed again. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Villa -- dammit -- for shit's sake. Fuck. Frick. How do people talk without swearing?"

When Iker had first met Xabi, back in college, he’d been a quiet, wildly smart, awkward-sweet kind of guy. Then -- well, then he’d gotten into politics.

He’d managed to maintain much the same public reputation; the word “class” got thrown around a lot. In private, though, the frustration had taught him to talk. Mostly cursing. It was fun to watch. Also, now he had a better haircut.

"Keep ignoring Villa," Iker said. He licked cream cheese from the back of his hand. "I'm going to my office. What do I have today?"

"Nothing this morning; I’ll be with Pepe Reina and a couple of his guys from EPL between nine-thirty and ten or so. Lunch with Sara from the Women's Leadership Coalition at Old Ebbit, call from Raul at two, Georgetown Campus Democrats at four. Carvalho's poll results should be in by three California time, so we're going to call in to him at six-fifteen. And then the fundraiser tonight. Canales has your briefing book," Xabi said. "You do realize I'm not actually your secretary."

"But you're so good at it," Iker said plaintively.

Xabi's pocket vibrated insistently. “Excuse me, will you? I have to go burn down the offices of the _Barça Daily_.”

“Just don’t do it on the campaign dime,” Iker said, and headed out.

  


"What the hell is this," Xavi said. His editor's eyebrows were doing their scariest thing, Pique noted. "This...thing you emailed me." He said it as if Pique had somehow sent him a dead rat over the internet.

"It's our new Twitter," Pique said, proudly.

"I hate it," Xavi said. "What's it for?"

"It makes us relevant to the youths," Pique said. "We're revitalizing our brand."

Xavi stared at him for a second. Then he roared, "Puyol!"

Their business manager shoved his head around the doorjamb, eyebrows lifted.

"Do we need a Twerter?" Xavi asked, dripping disdain. _He means Twitter_ , Pique mouthed, not subtly.

"Oh," Puyol said. He shrugged. "Yeah, why not? We should be more relevant to the youths."

"I hate youth," Xavi said.

"Careful," Pique said. "That's your internet subscription demographic. Look, I know you wish we were still using typewriters, with little press cards tucked into our fedoras--"

"--What's wrong with typewriters?--"

"--But this is the twenty-first century, and we need a twitter."

"Don't you think," Xavi said dangerously, "that what we actually need is a half-decent story?"

"I don't do stories, I do Social Media," Pique said. "Talk to Villa."

"Yes," someone said dramatically, from the door. "Villa definitely does stories."

David Villa -- the man who ended Ashley Cole's senatorial run, nabbed the Triesman tapes, and broke the Terry scandal, and the _Barça_ ’s latest high-profile addition -- was draped laconically in the doorway like he thought there was a spotlight on it. Something about the guy made Pique really want to pants him, but in kind of an affectionate way.

"Tell me you have something," Xavi said, massaging his forehead. "Something of actual substance."

"Matter of time, editor mio," Villa said, sauntering into the room.

"This isn't the Mourinho thing still, is it?" Puyol said. "Because, A, nobody on God's green earth is interested in what Christmas party a state senator went to, and B, I'm pretty sure that technically nothing--"

"I," Villa said, as if no one was talking, "am going to blow the lid off of the Casillas-Mourinho connection. As soon as Xabi Alonso starts taking my phone calls."

"So, never?" Pique said.

Villa shrugged, held up his Blackberry and pressed Call. It rang a few times; then there was a click, an inarticulate curse, and a dial tone. "At least once every five minutes. He can't turn off the phone, and he can't hold out forever. Plus I'm stopping by in person this afternoon."

"This is starting to look like a hit piece," Xavi said, but he sounded more pleased than otherwise.

"I've got nothing against Casillas," Villa said, stroking his stupid tiny beard. "I like him on immigration and taxes, he looks good kissing babies, and I don't think he's an idiot, which is a nice change from the usual candidates. But personal preferences aside, he's _got_ to be bent some way or other, and I think it has to do with José Mourinho."

"You do realize that if he loses, Wayne Rooney will continue to have a proudly ignorant voice in determining the future of our country," said Iniesta, who had stopped by to listen. Mostly they didn't bring politics into the newsroom, but their designer was one of those hippie-liberal artist guys who couldn't help himself. "But, you know, hooray for your journalistic integrity. Or whatever. Xavi, I've got your proofs here."

"Everyone else, vanish," Xavi said. "Don't bother me until you have something that will fill space. And that doesn't," he added, with a black look at Pique, "include anything for the youths."

"What I can't figure out," Pique muttered to Puyol as they made their way back to the cubicles, "is why he hired me. If he hates living outside ‘His Girl Friday’ so much--"

"He didn't hire you," Puyol said, patting his shoulder consolingly. "I did, and I told him you were a janitor, so. You can see why he gets a little snippy. How's our facebook readership campaign?"

"You might not believe this, but most thirteen to eighteen year olds are actually not that interested in old-fashioned investigative political journalism," Pique said. "And the ones who are, are horrible. They're the kids I used to beat up. They wear little suits and do Model Congress and they seriously don't make us look cool. We need to look cool."

"So you need a better gimmick," Puyol said.

"Or we can do extensive coverage every time someone from Twilight or 'Glee' comes to Washington," Pique suggested. "Your call."

Puyol sighed. "Ask me again after election day. Do you think Villa's got a story? Really?"

"If the story is called 'Today David Villa Woke Up Early To Spend Forty-Five Minutes Sculpting His Soul Patch,' maybe," Pique said. He flopped into his desk chair and spun morosely in a circle.

"You’d be happier if you were nicer," Puyol said. "I'm doing beer lunch with Fabregas today. Want to tag along?"

"Try and stop me," Pique said, feeling a little more cheerful.

  


"EPL Group, this is Javier speaking, how may I direct your call?...Oh. Mr. Hodgson? I, uh --"

_Hang up_ , Cesc mouthed from the coffee machine. _Hang up on him._ He demonstrated with his hand, pinky and thumb jabbed out.

Javier shot him a pleading look out of those giant, hapless Disney eyes. "Um. Mr. Henry's in a meeting right now, so...yes, he's received your messages. No, well, it's a busy time, and...Mm-hm. Yes. Okay. Well, I will definitely...No, I don't think he...wait, what? I'm not sure that's an appropriate...yes. No. Listen, why don't I just take your number, _again_ , and..."

_Power outage!_ Cesc mimed. _Phone cut off!_

"Sorry, power outage," Javier said, and hung up. Then he looked slightly nauseated. "That didn't sound convincing, did it."

"It’s okay," Cesc told him. "The less convincing the better, probably. He needs to get the message. You're doing great. By the way, did you figure out how to order more binder tabs?"

"I just want to say that I graduated magna cum laude from Pomona," Javier said, and sighed.

"That's nice," Cesc said, meaning it. "Oh, I meant to say, we need more k-cups. I like the French Roast ones, please."

When he got back to his desk Fernando was sitting on it, fiddling with his phone and looking frowny.

"Get off," Cesc said. He tugged his copies of _Roll Call_ and _The Barça_ out from under Fernando's ass.

"The trackball fell out of my Blackberry," Fernando said, pathetically doe-eyed. "I can't text, I can't Wikipedia at meetings, I can't Facebook on the metro. I have to just use it to call people, like this is the eighteen hundreds."

"That's not -- okay, you know what, whatever," Cesc said. "When's your meeting with Reina and, um, Casillas’s guy?"

"Now, more or less," Fernando said, unfolding his long legs gracefully to stand. "That's why I'm waiting for you, because I knew you wanted to sit in. Also I need to borrow a pen. Oh," as an afterthought, "and I stole your other coffee mug, just so you know."

"If you would just ask," Cesc said sadly. "Have I ever not let you borrow something?"

"Mostly I like carrying it around," Fernando said, holding up the mug so that YALE LAW obscured his face. "I think it makes me look smarter. Can I take a Uniball? Thanks." He reached into Cesc's desk drawer without waiting for a reply, which would have been fine, except -- oh, shit.

"Wait," he said frantically, "uh, no, I've got another in --" but Fernando had already drawn out the envelope between his fingers, a slow, wicked smile blossoming on his face. "Cesc _ito_. What is this."

"Personal," Cesc said, flushing hotly.

He made a grab for the envelope but Fernando pulled it away, still grinning moronically at him. "Addressed to 'C.' Oh, that is _precious_. Is it a _love letter?_ "

"Leave it, Torres," Cesc snapped, and Fernando blinked, surprised at his tone, and lowered his arm. Cesc grabbed the envelope back and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. "Sorry. But seriously."

"Wow, Fabregas," Fernando said. His face had softened, though; he looked genuinely apologetic. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm fine," Cesc said, a little too fast.

"Listen, if you need to talk," Fernando said, resting a hand on Cesc's elbow for a second.

"No, it's okay. Sorry. I'm just a little, you know," Cesc said. He was still hot with embarrassment and panic. "I didn't get a lot of sleep, I guess? Sorry."

"It's cool," Fernando said, but he kept watching Cesc with unnerving sharpness. "Seriously though, I need a pen."

Cesc handed him one from his pocket, and Fernando immediately put it in his mouth. "Come on," he said, a little muffled. "Can you grab my agenda? Let's try not being late, for once."

"You're going to give me diseases," Cesc said forlornly, eyeing the pen between Fernando's teeth.

"Are you sure everything’s okay?” Fernando said, removing the pen and tucking it into his pocket. When he got that voice, it was easier to remember he was a dad.

Cesc’s ears and neck went hot again. The envelope felt heavy and conspicuous in his pocket. "It’s fine, I said. Thanks. Whatever. Can we go to this meeting?"

“Hmm,” Fernando said, but that was all.

  


"Mr. Mourinho is in the front waiting, please," Mesut said, appearing in Xabi's doorway like a tiny, bug-eyed demon from a trap. "He is to speak with you eager. I have given to him also coffee." Next to him -- because apparently they were joined at the hip -- Marcelo was texting furiously.

Sometimes Xabi wondered if he'd made a mistake, hiring interns. Sure, they were willing to do humiliating things no one else would touch, for free. However, half the time they did the exact opposite of what you told them, and also their puppyish enthusiasm was exhausting, and eventually it felt worth it to just buy your own damn toilet paper. He wondered if he could drum up some unfortunate grad student who'd be pathetically grateful for a $1200 monthly stipend, just to get these two out of his hair.

"Mesut," he said patiently. "I think I told you not to let anybody in here who wasn't on the schedule."

“Well, yes—”

"Yeah no man you did, okay,” Marcelo said, thumbs flying across the keyboard of his phone, “except we thought because of like this whole stupid thing with the _Barça_ like maybe you would want to talk to him in person and get all that straightened out or whatever, you know.” He had one white earbud in, from which Xabi could hear the pulsing whine of distressed young men armed with guitars. "And plus like actually Cristiano let him in apparently, or that's what he said, what Mr. Mourinho said I mean, so he didn't actually buzz in, so really it's not like our fault or anything, like what were we going to do, physically keep him out or whatever, no way man, that dude is scary."

"Okay," Xabi said, a little shell-shocked. "Good. Fine. Did you finish those credentials for the fundraiser?"

"Yes! We have also purchase many shoelaces, from which we are fashion strings, so that persons of the press may around their necks hang the credentials," Mesut said proudly. "They are in the supply closet now accommodated. Please to assign for us a new inspiring political task."

"Urgh," Xabi said, before he could stop himself. He gestured vaguely down the hall. "Go...ask Canales. If he doesn't have anything, ask Albiol. I've got a meeting, so he’s in charge of you this morning. Thanks," he added, belatedly.

Mourinho was lounging in a folding chair in their makeshift front office, looking like something out of a Brooks Brothers production of _The Matrix_ in an impeccable black peacoat, gray slacks, and expensive sunglasses that did absolutely nothing to hide his identity. He had a tiny notebook open on his lap, in which he was furiously scribbling. As irritating as it was to see him, Xabi couldn't help feeling a little twinge of appreciation. It was nice, for once, to see someone else in this office who could dress like an adult.

"Good morning, Xabier," Mourinho said significantly, without looking up.

"Really?" Xabi said, folding his arms. "Today seemed like a good day to pay a visit?" In his vest pocket, his phone vibrated. For an instant he considered throwing it at the wall. Instead he silenced it again, making a mental note to look into blocking technology, or possibly hit men.

Mourinho snapped his notebook closed, lowered his sunglasses and regarded Xabi over them. "You look tired. Puffy. What's your sodium intake? I didn't let you take leave to work on this --" he gestured dismissively at the heaps of signs, the space heater buzzing in the corner, the vending machine which was their main source of nutrition, "--this...idealist crusade just so that my most promising attorney could come back to me a bloated wreck of his former self."

“I’m not on leave this time,” Xabi said with infinite patience, for about the hundredth time. “I quit, remember?”

“Yes, so you keep saying,” Mourinho said. He leaned in a little closer, squinting at Xabi's shirt. "Did you know there's something on your lapel? It looks like...Cheez-Its." His mouth twisted up in elegant distaste. "Who _are_ you?"

Xabi glanced down at the offending stain and winced. "It's orange highlighter. Who saw you come in?"

"Oh, everyone," Mourinho said indifferently. "Calm down, Xabier. It's all part of my plan."

"What plan," Xabi said dubiously. “You always say you have a plan, and I’m not sure you ever do.”

"Ha ha," Mourinho said. "Let's talk in your office."

It was embarrassing, having his former boss see the tiny little rented shambles that was his office, but there wasn't much to be done about it. At least he’d kept it neat. As Mourinho came in Xabi took a quick inventory to make sure this was still true -- and noticed, with a certain amount of horror, that his breakfast (which was also last night’s dinner) was still perched atop a stack of _Politico_ back issues. Back at Perez Valdano LLP, Xabi wouldn't have been caught dead eating anything called a "Chicken Caesar Burrito." Especially not directly out of the plastic bag, with his hands, first thing in the morning. Well, too late now.

"Charming," Mourinho said, undoing his scarf and draping it fastidiously over the top of the chair. "Quaint. I like what you've done with the place. Is that a window, or a heating vent?"

It was a window, but barely. "Look, people don't go into campaign work for the glamour," Xabi said, opening the blinds.

"Clearly," Mourinho said. He sat down, crossing his legs at the ankle. “So I hear I’m the latest scandal about to hit your candidate?”

Xabi didn't bother asking how he knew. Mourinho _always knew._ “It’s some kind of bullshit – sorry – code of ethics, inappropriate solicitation of funds thing,” he said. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. God, he was exhausted. And puffy? Could he really have become _puffy_? When was the last time he’d had the chance to go for a run? Had he seriously eaten Fritos for lunch the last three days? “From, like, three years ago. Because you gave him some money, and he went to the firm’s Christmas party, and then he voted for H-203 – the children of migrant laborers thing -- which he would have done regardless, obviously.”

“Well, yes. Everyone who mattered went to our Christmas party,” Mourinho said, matter-of-factly.

“I know. It’s fuc – it’s nonsense, I’m saying.” He could have stayed at Perez Valdano, Xabi thought wistfully. He could’ve been in his nice corner office right now, gazing out over K street, making some underling write him a brief on providing kittens to the troops or something.

Well, there was no point in whining about it. He settled behind his desk, which at least felt more professional. “I don’t know what it is about the _Barça_ , but they really want us to suffer. If this doesn’t pan out for them, they’ll find something else. Maybe they'll itemize all the personal mail he’s ever sent out from the state house. Maybe they'll find someone he borrowed a book from and never gave it back. It is, seriously, nothing. Which is why I’m not picking up David Villa’s calls.”

“Good,” Mourinho said, nodding.

“Except now,” Xabi went on, swelling with the comforting glow of righteous rage, "now I have a problem. Because before this it was just stupid petty crap – sorry – that no one with half a brain would have taken seriously, but now if he _does_ break this story the Drudge Alert is going to be all about you visiting our office dressed all,” he waved a hand irritably at Mourinho’s head, “ _pointedly incognito_ , like goddamn – like effing Spy vs. Spy. And then HuffPo starts talking about Shady Lobbyists and Corporate Fat Cats, and then it doesn’t fu -- and then it doesn’t matter whether any of it was ever true or not.”

“Are you swearing less?” Mourinho said, looking mildly impressed.

“Not successfully,” Xabi said. He rested his head in his hands.

“You don’t have a problem,” Mourinho pointed out. “You don’t have to do press. Ronaldo has a problem.”

“His problems _are_ my problems,” Xabi said, into his palms. “And there are so, so many of them.”

His phone beeped. Instinctively he lunged to turn it off; then he realized it was his calendar, not David Villa’s unending quest to drive him into an asylum. “Oh, sh -- ff -- mm. José, I’ve got a meeting. Can we talk about this later?” This raised a question. “Incidentally, what _are_ you here to talk about?”

“I’m not,” Mourinho said pleasantly. “I was just checking up on you. On your present...situation. And I wanted to reassure you that I have never paid Iker to vote my way.” He stood, gathering his things.

Xabi laughed, hollowly. “Sometimes I wish you had. We’d probably have a lot fewer principled stands to defend.”

“You underestimate me,” Mourinho said, looking hurt. “I have all kinds of principles. _All_ kinds. I’ve got Rui waiting with the town car; shall I give you a lift to EPL?”

“If people see me getting in your town car it’s going to be a whole thing,” Xabi said. “I’m getting a taxi.” He stopped. “Wait, how did you know where --”

Mourinho smiled indulgently at him. “Put your coat on, Xabier,” he said.

  


"Bro," Pepe said, from the floor. He made an anguished, dying sound. " _Bro_."

"You need to learn to hydrate," Stevie said. He nudged Pepe's shoulder with his foot. “Why are you on my carpet."

"Who cares where I go to die," Pepe mumbled. “One grave is like another. My office was too far. Shit, man, I feel like someone made me eat my own brain like in _Red Dragon_. You and Carra are Hannibal Lecter in this metaphor."

“Carra and I didn’t make you do the Pyramid of Shots,” Stevie objected. He wrinkled his nose. “You smell like the floor of a brewery.”

“Peer pressure was implicit, dude,” Pepe said. “I have literally never experienced a hangover like this. I think it might actually be the end of my life. Do you have an extra shirt?”

It would be lowering to admit that he was actually wearing his extra shirt right now. He’d meant to do laundry last night, but the Pyramid of Shots had been kind to no one. “No.”

“Fuck,” Pepe said, to the floor. “I have a meeting. In ten minutes. Okay. I’m fine. It’s gonna be fine.” He crawled agonizingly to his knees, sat looking dazed and unwell for a few seconds, and then was succinctly sick in Stevie’s wastebasket.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Stevie yelped, leaping back.

“It’s cool, man,” Pepe said, from the depths of the bin. “It’s mostly Vitamin Water.”

“In no way is this cool!” Stevie objected.

“I have to go to this meeting,” Pepe said, emerging. He looked more ghoulish than ever. “Oh, God, I don’t even remember what it is.”

“You can’t meet with a client like this,” Stevie said. “John Henry will flay you alive.” One of their new president’s first team meetings had centered on a friendly-but-ominous lecture on professionalism. He had used phrases like _collegial respect_ and _self-conduct in the workplace_ and _inappropriate frat-house atmosphere_.

“It’s an intro thing, ‘bullshit bullshit bullshit let’s eat muffins,’ it’ll last two seconds. Silva always gives me a briefing book. I’m pretty sure it’s somebody I know even, but Jesus Christ, I can’t even think right now. I swear, dude, if I die,” Pepe said, giving him a bleary side-eye, “I’m going to get Arteta to sue the absolute _testicles_ off of you, do you understand?”

“Look,” Stevie said, feeling a pang of sympathy in spite of himself. “I’ve got a free morning. Why don’t I just take your meeting? I’ll get the binder from Silva. If it’s just an intro thing, it doesn’t really matter, right?” Admittedly he’d been looking forward to catching up on Deadspin and playing an hour or so of Brickbreaker, but sometimes you had to step up for your friends. Even when they had just vomited fluorescent pink into your trash can.

Pepe stared up at him, his expression hovering somewhere between pathetically grateful and just regular pathetic. “Are you serious?”

Stevie shrugged uncomfortably. “Why not?”

“And I was trying to figure out how to move so I could throw up in your desk,” Pepe said remorsefully. “I take it back, I take it all back.”

“Just get me a new trashcan, and find somewhere else to pass out,” Stevie said.

“You’re a lifesaver, bro,” Pepe said, staggering to his feet and clutching the vile bin to his chest. “If you need me -- and please don’t -- I’ll be in the handicapped stall in the 8th-floor bathroom.”

David Silva didn’t even blink when Stevie explained the situation. “Here,” he said, handing over the scheduling binder. “It’s all in there. I keep the words short on Thursdays because I know how he gets.”

“Wednesday is the new Friday,” Stevie explained.

“Apparently,” Silva agreed. “Meeting’s in C-3. Torres is there already. The guy’s waiting, but he’s early, so just buzz down to Javier whenever.”

Stevie was already halfway down the hall when he finally opened the binder and saw the name on the first tab.

09:30 -- X. ALONSO  
CMP. MGR., CASILLAS 2011

Something seized somewhere around the top of his spine. For a second he stood like an idiot in the middle of the hallway, mind completely blank: then he spun on his heel and charged back to Silva’s desk.

“Silva, I can’t -- ”

“Hold please,” Silva said pleasantly, and pressed his Bluetooth. Then to Stevie, “What do you mean you can’t.”

“I mean I _can’t take this meeting_. You said Torres is there? Why can’t he run it?”

“Torres is an associate. They were promised a senior VP,” Silva said. He was as calm as ever, but there was definitely a flare of alarm in his eyes. “It’s a personal favor to Linda; apparently she knows the candidate.”

Oh, God. You didn’t cross Chairwoman Linda Pizzuti. “Could Carra--?”

“Breakfast meeting with Senator Beckham,” Silva said. “You’re the Lone Ranger, Mr. Gerrard.”

Some moron corner of his brain was making a _Hi-yo, Silva!_ joke, probably because the rest of his brain was too busy panicking to make it shut up. “Are you absolutely one hundred percent positive that Linda needs it to be a Senior VP.”

“She sent me three emails,” Silva said. “She never sends me emails.”

“Oh, fucking shit Christ,” Stevie said, sincerely.

“What’s the matter?” Silva asked.

“Nothing,” Stevie said distractedly. “Never mind. I’m fine. It’s fine. I’ll just...it’s just a quick meet-and-greet, right?”

“Muffins,” Silva said. “Firm handshakes. That’s all. Are you going to be able to manage this? Do we need to do some sitcom thing where I pretend to be a Senior VP and you pretend to be a PA and then it goes hilariously wrong but in the end we both learn an important lesson about ourselves and each other, or--”

“I’m going, okay?” Stevie snapped. “I’m fucking going.”

Silva tapped his Bluetooth again and said, smoothly, “Thanks for your patience, sir.”

 

That Government Relations infant, Fabregas, was in the conference room too for some reason. Well, that was for the best; Stevie would take any buffer he could get.

No. What was he thinking? They were adults, they were professionals, it was going to be fine. He was making a fuss about nothing. Just an old acquaintance.

“I thought Pepe was taking this one?” Torres said, frowning.

“Nope,” Stevie said, adjusting his tie. “Is it really hot in here?”

“Feels okay to me,” Torres said, and Stevie fought an irrational urge to hit him.

“I’ll turn down the thermostat,” the Fabregas kid said, scampering to the wall.

“Be nice to him, by the way,” Torres whispered. “He’s on edge.”

_You have no idea_ , Stevie wanted to inform him. “Let’s get this over with,” he muttered instead.

“Hey, don’t worry,” Torres said. “This is going to be casual. No big deal. The guy’s a friend of mine. Actually, you might know him; he was on both of the Benitez campaigns, too.”

“I know him,” Stevie said.

“Oh great!” Torres said, with hideous good cheer, and leaned over the phone on the desk. “Hey, Chicha, you can send Xabi in.”

Stevie wanted to slap the phone out of his hand and yell _Actually, it’s cancelled! We’re cancelling!_ He loosened his tie a little more. It was definitely hot.

There was a clip of footsteps down the hall; then Stevie heard a low, familiar cadence, slightly accented. _I’m sorry, do you mind if I just answer this quickly?_

When the door opened Xabi Alonso was growling into his phone, “Villa. It was. A _Christmas party._ ” Then his eyes met Stevie’s and widened.

“Xabi?” came a tinny voice from the speaker. “Are you there? Great, I have a couple of --” Xabi pressed the off-button, put the phone in his pocket and smoothed down his tie. He looked, once again, thoroughly unruffled.

“Xabi!” Fernando was saying cheerfully, moving in for a back-slapping handshake. “Good to see you again, _hombre._ This is Cesc Fabregas, a colleague of mine, he’ll be sitting in. And I think you know Steven Gerrard, our Senior VP for public relations?”

“We’ve met.” His voice was as cool and firm as his handshake. The absolute cheek of the bastard. “How are you, Steven?”

“Great,” Stevie said. “Fantastic. Great. I like your beard, that’s new.” Oh, for Christ’s sake. Was he sweating? This was absurd.

“I thought Pepe was running our account,” Xabi said casually.

“Can’t make it,” Stevie said. “Family thing. I’m filling in for all of his...stuff. It’s just for today. Believe me, I did _not_ take this meeting on purpose.”

“Ah,” Xabi said. His mouth tightened.

“Well!" Torres said, rather nervously. "Good. Who wants a muffin?”

  



	2. Chapter 2

_Woodbridge, N.J._  
November, 2009

Xabi leaned on the bar, nursing his beer, trying to enjoy the sight of Hyypia getting down to the Emotions. It wasn’t his first loss, and it certainly wasn’t his worst, but still. Still. It was the end of something he wasn't ready to let go of yet.

“Hell of a concession party!” someone yelled, over the music.

Stevie looked nearly radiant in the blue half-light of the club, his sleeves rolled up over his forearms and his shirt unbuttoned a few buttons too low. He shouldered his way to the bar and settled next to Xabi there, jostling his arm. The bassline thudded through the warm air between them like a heartbeat.

Xabi put on a more welcoming expression, with a little effort. “Well, a seventy-five-hundred vote margin? That’s worth celebrating.”

“It is! And yet you’ve got your little --” Stevie gestured over his head with his beer bottle. “Your little black cloud. It’s annoying. I’m trying to enjoy myself, but it’s impossible when you’ve got that face on.”

“I don’t have a face,” Xabi protested. “I’m just being quiet. I’m watching Sami dance.”

“You have ‘There’s no trophy for Second Place’ face,” Stevie said, poking him in the ribs. “And you’re wrong. There is a trophy. It’s silver, it’s shiny, it’s got our names engraved on it, and it’s going to get us onto the GQ Power List next month.”

In spite of himself Xabi felt a real smile curving his lips. “Silver doesn’t suit my complexion. I’m an Autumn.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, is what you are,” Stevie said comfortably. “I’m getting you a real drink.” He leaned sideways over the bar to holler something at the bartender. His collar pulled as he moved, and light edged the sheen of sweat on one clavicle. Xabi felt a powerful shudder run through him, almost like sadness.

Stevie leaned back with two shot glasses and handed him one. “To us,” he said grandly.

“What is it?” Xabi asked, sniffing suspiciously.

“It’s a surprise,” Stevie said. His eyes softened, crinkled at the corners. “Cheers.”

It was disgusting, like chewed licorice spat into a glass of Nyquil. Xabi made an agonized face. “Oh, _Christ_ , Steven.”

“It’s a Redheaded Slut,” Stevie said cheerfully. “Especially for you, Ginger Beard.”

“It tastes like a Jolly Rancher threw up in my mouth,” Xabi said, sticking his tongue out in an effort to diffuse the taste. “Blugh.”

“Another round?” the bartender asked.

“Johnnie Walker Black,” Xabi said firmly. “Neat. For both of us.”

Stevie lifted his eyebrows. “Blended? What are you, a _peasant?_ ”

“You’re too drunk to appreciate anything better,” Xabi said loftily.

“Next round I’m getting you a Cosmopolitan,” Stevie said. “A piña colada maybe.”

“There’s not going to be a next round,” Xabi said. “I’m too old. I’m going to bed.”

“Oh no you’re not,” Stevie said, bumping Xabi’s shoulder with his own. “Not tonight you’re not. And you’re not old, either. There’s a hell of a lot of future about to happen. Which we, uh.” He coughed and looked out at the room, avoiding Xabi’s eyes. He said into his glass, “Which we should talk about.”

Xabi’s heart lurched. He shouldn’t let this go on. It was only going to get worse the longer he put it off. “Yeah, well. Listen, I've been trying to talk to you --”

Stevie’s fingers circled his wrist suddenly; surprised, Xabi glanced full into his eyes, which were dark blue and warm and steady.

“Hey,” he said. “Whatever you’re worrying about -- leave it, all right? Just for tonight, leave it. We’re drinking from the keg of glory, here, don’t forget. We won’t usually get to lose this beautifully.”

“No,” Xabi said. He stared into his glass. "But Steven, seriously --"

“Come on,” Stevie said, over him. “We’re stars, mate. We should be holding court, not bloody sulking. Let’s kick some interns out of a booth and claim it for our own. ” He pressed his palm, cold from the beer bottle, against the back of Xabi’s neck.

And Xabi, helplessly, said “Yeah, fine.”

_Washington D.C._  
September, 2011

 

“It’s Pepe, leave one,” said the horribly cheerful voice on the end of the line. As soon as the tone went off Xabi snarled, “You _motherfucker_ ,” punched the End button and slumped into a cab, feeling no better at all. His face was still burning; there was a kind of ringing in his ears, as if he’d been stunned by an explosion.

Steven Gerrard. Steven _fucking_ Gerrard. Looking handsome and bluff and businesslike, the creases in his face worn a little deeper maybe, his blue eyes sharp and aloof. Xabi smeared a hand over his mouth, and the prickle there reminded him how Steven had nodded at his four-day stubble and said _I like your beard_ , his mouth twisting up mockingly, as if to hit home just how worn and sleepless Xabi must look. What had Mourinho said? A bloated wreck of his former self? Jesus Christ.

Fernando had spent the entire hour making small talk and glancing nervously between them. Stevie had been fine, solid and professional, but Xabi had been -- there was no other word for it -- _snippy_ , juvenile and obnoxious, like a sulky teenager, too embarrassed to behave rationally. Oh, it had been fucking awful -- and fucking _Fabregas_ had been there, asking him some question, he barely knew how he’d answered, he’d been so busy trying to escape and now --

The cab pulled up to the curb and Xabi shoved a ten at the guy and slammed out.

“Hello, handsome,” said the last voice on the planet he wanted to hear. His press secretary was leaning against the wall, smoking: a thing Xabi had expressly told him either to quit or to keep private.

“Fuck off, Ronaldo,” Xabi said tiredly, thumbing through his wallet for his keycard. “I’m not in the mood.” He ran the card through the lock: the light went red and burped discouragingly at him.

“I thought I’d be on your good side today!” Ronaldo protested. “Did you somehow not watch [Jon Stewart](http://dorkorific.livejournal.com/80881.html#cutid1) yesterday? I was so goddamn charming --”

“You were smug and glib and orange,” Xabi said. The lock burped again. He realized belatedly that he was trying to swipe his Starbucks card, closed his eyes for a second, re-opened his wallet. “I don’t know why I haven’t fired you. Kaka could do your job, and he doesn't make people want to punch him.”

“Kaka could not in a thousand years do my job,” Ronaldo said, and the fact that it was true made it no less irritating. “What the hell crawled up your ass this morning? You look like you need to start smoking again.”

“Nothing crawled up my ass,” Xabi muttered, as the lock finally dinged and went green. He yanked the door open.

“Well, maybe something should,” Ronaldo said, and totally failed to wither under the glare Xabi threw at him. “Listen, do you want me to do a little speech at this fundraiser tonight, or what?”

“Yes,” Xabi said, “yes, I want you to do your fucking _job_ at this fundraiser tonight --”

“What you need is a nap, Grumpy Buttons,” Ronaldo said. He dropped his cigarette butt to the sidewalk and ground it out with the pointed toe of one elegant Varvados wingtip. “Just want me to intro Iker?”

“No, I want you to read excerpts from your fucking high school diary,” Xabi said. “What do you think?”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of discourse,” Ronaldo said, all self-satisfied and horrible, “and I thought you were trying to swear less?” and Xabi made a strangled noise at him and stormed inside.

Bojan was supposed to be proofing Valdés’s piece on the latest CEO indictment (which was as usual turning into a love letter to the guy’s car, _a staggering percentage of the bailout money went toward purchasing Hicks’s spectacular jet-black Mercedes-Benz GL550 with its magnificent new 5.5-liter V8 engine_ etc.) and he was going to get to it, he definitely would, but the scene unfolding at the desk across from him was too fascinating to ignore.

“It’s not that I want you to cover my ass,” Villa was explaining. “It’s just that sometimes, no matter how good a Plan A might be, you just need to develop a Plan B in case other people ruin Plan A through no fault of your own. So just in case the Casillas campaign continues to stonewall me, I need to fill, say, fifteen-twenty inches.”

“Okay,” Messi said cheerfully.

“It doesn’t have to be good,” Villa said. He examined his teeth in the screen of Leo’s laptop. “It just has to be words.”

“Sure!” Messi said.

Villa frowned at him. “That’s it?”

“Is there anything else you want?” Messi asked. “Sandwich? Coffee? Office supplies? Need anything shipped?”

“No,” Villa said, looking slightly perplexed, as people tended to when they worked with Messi for the first time.

“Well, let me know,” Messi said, and turned back to his computer, humming to himself.

After Villa was gone Bojan leaned across to him. “Hey. Leo.”

“Hmm?” Messi said.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Bojan said.

“Oh, it’s fine!” Messi assured him. “I’ll just knock out something on gas prices. It won’t be glamorous, but it’ll do.”

“I mean, you don’t have to do his work for him.”

“He’s a really great writer,” Messi said. “I’m happy to do whatever I can to help with his process.”

“His process,” Bojan echoed. He cleared his throat. “Uh, Leo --”

“It’s all for the good of the _Barça_ ,” Messi said, peacefully. “I mean, if we don’t fill those inches, we’re the ones who look bad. If David has to spend a lot of time coming up with some filler story, we don’t get whatever scoop he’s after. I don’t mind.”

"Leo,” Bojan said, because it had to be asked, “how long have you worked here?”

A frown crossed Messi’s brow. “Well. I started coming summers when I was, what, thirteen? Fourteen? So. Almost ten years. But, you know, on and off.”

“And what exactly is your job title?"

"Technically I'm an editorial intern," Messi said brightly.

"Do you get paid?"

"I think so," Messi said. “I haven’t run out of money, so. I assume there’s some kind of Direct Deposit?”

Bojan gaped at him. He said carefully, “Leo. That doesn’t strike you as, you know, kind of messed-up?”

“I’m really fine, Boj,” Messi said. He patted Bojan’s hand, fondly. “I’m great, in fact. Honestly. But it’s nice that you’re concerned.”

The thing was, he _was_ great. The guy was as happy as a clam. There was no fazing him.

“Okay,” Bojan said, shrugging, and tried again to focus on Victor’s breathless paean to the art of the SUV. ( _Unfortunately for his employees, Hicks’s business ventures did not handle as smoothly as his car’s top-of-the-line suspension._ )

“Victor,” Bojan called across the newsroom, and the reporter pushed his headphones back around his neck, lifting his eyebrows. “You know this isn’t _Car and Driver_ , right?”

“Yes,” Victor said, glaring at him. “People actually read _Car and Driver._ Don’t get up my ass. If you don’t like it, just cut it like you always do.”

“If you didn’t write it, I wouldn’t have to cut it.”

“Well, if you didn’t,” Victor began, and seemed to run out of ideas. He slapped his headphones back on, sulkily.

Pique, coming around the cubicles, flicked Victor in the back of the head and sauntered over to Bojan’s desk. “Hey,” he said.

“What was that for?” Victor yelped, outraged.

“On principle,” Pique said. He picked up Bojan’s paperweight and tossed it from hand to hand. “Krkic, how old are you?”

“Twenty,” Bojan said, a little nervously.

“Do you know anyone between thirteen and eighteen?” Pique asked. Now he was balancing the paperweight on his head and peeling off Bojan’s stack of post-its as if dealing cards.

“That’s the creepiest question you’ve ever asked me,” Bojan said, trying to take back his belongings and being repeatedly foiled by Pique’s long arms. “Which is saying something.”

“We need more people to be our Facebook fans,” Pique explained. He pulled the pile of Bojan’s papers out from underneath himself and surveyed them thoughtfully. “Oh god, did Boruc send us another column?”

“I’m legitimately afraid _not_ to run them,” Bojan said, eyeing the piece, which was – at the moment -- apparently entitled _I KEEP ASKING WHY THERE IS TOO MUCH CORN SYRUP IN ALL OF THE FOODS BUT NO ONE WILL GIVE ME AN ANSWER!!!!!!_

(Artur Boruc’s column, _ARTUR BORUC’S QUESTION BY ARTUR BORUC_ , was supposed to be a nice little human interest piece for Fridays, a kind of good-natured complaint-of-the-week thing. However it usually arrived at Bojan’s desk a kind of Unabomber Manifesto Lite, handwritten on receipts or cardboard box lids and covered with mysterious stains. It was Bojan’s job to turn whatever half-crazed polemic Artur had in his head into something resembling normal human thought -- which was too bad, because there was something demented and brilliant about them in their natural state, like William S. Burroughs filtered through Google Translate. This one, he thought sadly, would probably have to be turned into something about childhood obesity.)

“Yikes,” Pique said. He tossed the papers back down to the desk. “Well, listen, if you meet any young people, tell them to sign up for our facebook group. There’s no way we can switch to a paywall model if I can’t prove to Carles that anyone on the internet is even reading us.”

“No one on the internet _is_ reading us,” Bojan said.

“Hence my need to resort to fraud,” Pique agreed. “Listen, I’m gonna go grab beer lunch. If anyone asks, I’m in the bathroom.”

“All afternoon?” Bojan asked.

“I guarantee you no one will be surprised,” Pique said, which was actually true.

“You _motherfucker_ ,” Stevie spat, slamming Pepe’s office door shut.

“Why is everyone yelling at me?” Pepe said, outraged. “What did I do?”

“You,” Stevie said, barely restraining himself from flinging something at Pepe’s head, “sent me into a meeting with Xabi Alonso. With absolutely no warning.”

“ _That’s_ what I had,” Pepe said, nodding. He looked significantly less ill. He probably looked better than Stevie did, the dick. "Explains a lot, actually."

“You’re fucking right that’s what you had!”

“Well, Jesus, dude, I’m sorry you couldn’t muster up a little professionalism and behave like an adult,” Pepe said, with no apparent sense of irony. “You’re right, that’s definitely my fault.”

“Behave like an adult,” Stevie said, very quietly. “Is that. That’s what you. You want to fucking talk to me about _professionalism?_ ”

Pepe spread his hands in aggrieved appeal. “You knew we had the Casillas account. He’s the fucking campaign manager, Stevie! I mean, for Christ’s sake, what did you think, you could just, like, hide under your desk every time --”

“I just think I had the right to expect not to get fucking trapped in a surprise meeting with him!”

“It wasn’t even a fucking meeting!” Pepe said. “It was muffins!”

“When that two-faced bastard--”

“You seriously need to pull your thong down,” Pepe snapped. “He’s a _client_. Get over it. Man, please tell me you didn’t act like this in there? I’m not trying to claim some moral high ground, given your trash can and everything, but you are behaving like an absolute penis.”

Stevie flushed hot all over. “It was fine, all right? It went fine, I just -- I’m just saying that next time -- I’m just saying.”

It hadn’t been fine. Pepe was right; he’d been a _complete_ penis, putting on some kind of stuffy, self-righteous Businesslike façade that wouldn’t have fooled a child, blathering on meaninglessly, _We’re sure the team here at EPL will be able to achieve for Mr. Casillas the objectives you’ve laid out as our client,_ while across the table Xabi’s clear, contemptuous gaze rested on him unwavering.

“You’re a motherfucker,” he told Pepe again, but with a little less conviction.

“So you said,” Pepe said. “Do you need to borrow Silva’s CD of soothing nature sounds?”

“No,” Stevie said. “I’m going back to my office. And, fuck you. Again.”

“Okay. Are we still having lunch?”

“Fine,” Stevie snapped, and stormed out.

_THE RACHEL MADDOW SHOW: TRANSCRIPT_

> MADDOW: Ah, fall. That magical time of year when a young man's fancy turns  
>  to...endorsements. The latest scuttlebutt coming out of the Capitol is that Raul  
>  Gonzalez, the wildly popular Republican Senator from Fairfield, intends to endorse  
>  his former Statehouse colleague -- and Ana Maria Cox's imaginary boyfriend --  
>  Democrat Iker Casillas over his senior state colleague, incumbent Republican  
>  Wayne Rooney. During his term as governor of Fairfield, Senator Gonzalez worked so  
>  closely with Casillas that he came to be known in the Statehouse as the Governor's  
>  "right-hand man on the Left" -- a little example of state-legislature humor for you.
> 
> The Casillas and Rooney campaigns officially refused to comment, but not everyone's  
>  mouth was quite so tightly shut. In response to this scurrilous rumor, Senator  
>  Gonzalez unequivocally and courageously clarified his stance during his press  
>  conference on Tuesday.
> 
> (BEGIN VIDEOTAPE)
>
>>   
>  SEN. RAUL GONZALEZ (R-FA): "I don't want to comment on the election right  
>  now. I don't think it's my place or where my priorities should be.  
>  Obviously Senator Rooney and I have also worked together on a number of  
>  issues, he's my colleague and I respect him deeply. And of course  
>  ultimately it's not my decision, it's up to the people of Fairfield, which  
>  is --"
>> 
>> UNIDENTIFIED MALE REPORTER: "Well, but the people of Fairfield are  
>  interested in --"
>> 
>> GONZALEZ: "Look, all I'm saying is _I_ wouldn't want to run against Iker  
>  Casillas, because among his generation he's -- uh. That is, if...I...um.  
>  Uh, I'd really...I'd really rather talk about the appropriations bill we're  
>  trying to pass."  
> 
> 
> (END VIDEOTAPE)
> 
>  
> 
> MADDOW: Yep. Really dodged a bullet there, Senator.

“It’s not exactly the endorsement I would’ve liked to give you,” Raul said. His voice across the phone sounded tired and amused, and Iker pictured him in his office in the Russell with his feet up on the desk, pictures of Mamen and the kids everywhere.

“Man, listen, I know you’re in an awkward position,” Iker said. “I don’t think it was that bad.” He glanced anxiously back into the restaurant, where Sara Carbonero had folded her menu and was pointedly examining her nails. _One second,_ he mouthed, holding up a finger.

“It was bad, Iker,” Raul said firmly. He sighed. “I can’t remember the last time I gaffed like that. I just -- I’ve been so exhausted lately. It’s...” He trailed off.

“Please don’t worry about it,” Iker said. It was strange to hear Raul sounding unsure of himself; it was pretty unpleasant.

“Well, I don’t think anyone’s shocked to hear I’d like to work with you again,” Raul said, more lightly. “I’d just really prefer if you guys don’t comment. It’s not that it’ll matter to you, or even to me -- it’s just -- Rooney. I hate to prophesy anything but success for you, kiddo, but there’s always the possibility he and I will have another term together, and I’d prefer it if we could have a decent working relationship.”

“Done,” Iker said. _Sorry,_ he mouthed to Sara, who lifted her eyebrows caustically. “Of course. Hey, I’ve got the Women’s Leadership Coalition waiting -- but how about a drink this week? Have you got time?”

“Love to,” Raul said. “We’ll make plans at the fundraiser. See you tonight, kid.”

When he came back to the table Sara gave him a dazzling smile that didn’t quite make it to her eyes. “I ordered you that temperanillo you like. And the pork cheek ragu. How’s the patriarchy?”

“Thriving,” Iker said politely. “As ever.”

“What a shock,” Sara said. The waiter appeared noiselessly at her elbow, set down their glasses of wine and their salads, and vanished. “I hear Carvalho’s poll comes in tonight?”

“Mm,” Iker said noncommittally. He sipped his wine. “Nice. Is this the stuff we used to get at that little tapas place?”

“Let’s not get too personal, Sweet Cheeks,” Sara said. She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a thick manila folder. “You’re here because I’ve noticed you’re toning down the choice talk.”

“Well,” Iker attempted, “I don’t think our message right now--”

“Your message is about being progressive without being totally feeble,” Sara said, forking a square of goat cheese with gusto. “Caving on a woman’s right to autonomy over her own body is really not in line with _that_ message, if you ask me.”

“I’m not caving!” Iker said, outraged. “Where do you get ‘caving?’”

Sara fixed him with those remarkable eyes, then flipped the folder open. She paged through a couple of sheets. “Here we are. ‘With a complex issue like this I think what we really need to do is emphasize the values we share,’ blah blah blah, ‘address the problem of unwanted pregnancies,’ blah blah comprehensive sex ed --”

“We do!” Iker said. “We do need to emphasize those things and address that other thing. What’s wrong with comprehensive sex ed?”

“Don’t be disingenuous,” Sara said, shutting the folder with a snap. “Shared values? You’re the reason Fairfield funds the health-of-the-mother exception. No amount of cutesy Kumbaya talk --”

“Cutesy? -- It’s the whole state I have to win, Sara, I’m not just running in the fifteenth any more, and--”

“Oh, I’m sorry, how stupid of me,” Sara said coldly. “Would you like to explain to me how a Senatorial election works?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Iker said.

“Iker, you’re not going to win over anybody who thinks that someone whose _life_ is in danger shouldn’t be able to get an abortion.”

“They’re not saying they shouldn’t be _able_ to, just maybe that the state --”

“So who exactly are they proposing will fund these women’s right to not die?” Sara said sharply. “Planned Parenthood, because they’ve got the extra cash? It sounds to me like they’re saying we shouldn’t be able to, and you’re not going to win those people. Or at least, I hope for your sake you don’t, because if you win those people you’re going to lose women.” She took another bite of her salad. “The WLC will make sure of that. I personally will make damn sure.”

“I’m not trying to win the ‘repeal Roe v. Wade’ vote, all right?” Iker said. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want?”

“Next time someone asks you about reproductive rights, I want you to answer like you actually believe in them,” Sara said.

Iker rubbed his forehead. It felt wrong even to notice how gorgeous she was when she was pissed, but that didn’t make it any less true. “Sara.”

“Don’t act like I’m being unfair,” Sara said.

“Well, you _are_ being unfair,” Iker said. “What do you want me to say? ‘Yes, I love abortions, I only wish there could be more’?”

“Oh for God’s sake, Iker, nobody is saying --”

At the door to the restaurant there was a little bustle: a loud, deep, familiar voice was wrapping up a joke. Iker risked a glance over his shoulder. A foot over the heads of everyone else in the restaurant, Gerard Pique loomed like some kind of Theta Delt version of Lurch.

“Shit,” Iker said, slumping down a little in his seat.

“What?” Sara said with a little alarm.

“The Barça’s having lunch here,” Iker muttered.

Sara straightened, craning over his head to see. “Don’t worry, it’s just that marketing guy and Puyol, as far as I can tell.”

“Not Villa?” Iker risked a glance over his shoulder. Puyol was checking his phone, murmuring something; Pique was scanning the room. There was no one else with them. 

“You should really be more concerned about the Reliable Source,” Sara said. “They’re two tables over. Either Roxanne Roberts is checking you out, or we’re going back in the ‘On’ column tomorrow.”

“You could throw a drink in my face,” Iker offered. “That’d make them wonder.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Sara said, opening her folder again. “Let’s talk about health insurance.”

“Where is he?” Pique asked.

“Says he’s gonna be late,” Puyol said, pocketing his phone again. “Meeting got held up, apparently. Is that Casillas over there?”

“It is,” Pique said, leaning to see. “With Sara Carbonero -- that lucky bastard. Should we call Villa?”

“Remember what I said about being nice,” Puyol said. “Give him ten minutes for lunch, can’t you? Let him get his entree, then maybe we’ll call Villa.” 

“Or I could try out my journalism skills,” Pique suggested. “‘Hey Iker, are you taking bribes from shady-ass lawyers? Or what?’ Boom.”

“It’s nice to know you’ve got all these secret talents, like journalism,” Puyol said, scanning the draft list. “Beer-wise. What haven’t we tried?”

“I don’t feel adventurous today,” Pique said. “Get me a Bass, I’ll be right back.”

When he went to the bathroom, Cesc was in it.

“What?” Pique said.

“Oh, hey,” Cesc said. “Hi. Uh. I was just washing my hands.” He turned the faucet on and then back off.

“Aren’t you in a meeting?” Pique said.

“I was!” Cesc said. “I was, I just, I got out. And now I’m here. I was gonna say hi to you guys but I really had to pee. You know. But I’m done now, so.” He looked twitchy and pale.

“Cesc,” Pique said. “What the fuck.” 

Cesc mumbled something. His ears were red.

Pique narrowed his eyes at him. It wasn’t that he was Mister Intervention or anything, or Mister...Other People’s Feelings, but Cesc. Cesc was _Cesc_. He wasn’t exactly a goddamn cipher. Plus they’d been best friends for actually ever. He was either miserable or on drugs or wrapped up in some questionable shit, and whatever it was Pique didn’t like it.

“What questionable shit are you wrapped up in?” Pique asked. He glanced around. “Are you doing drugs in here?”

“No!” Cesc said, with comforting outrage. “I just...I’m not feeling that good, is all. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“That’s a drugs thing to say,” Pique said. “I mean Jesus, Cesc, cocaine, of all things? Just because you work at EPL -- I mean this isn’t the fucking eighties, you know? You could spend that money on better shit, like, I don’t know. Really good food, or a decent widescreen. You could buy a kegerator. You could buy _me_ a kegerator.”

“What the hell are you talking about,” Cesc said. His cheeks were red too now, and the top of his throat, in patches. 

“Cocaine is expensive, I’m saying,” Pique said, poking him in the solar plexus and peering in close. His nose wasn’t runny or anything. His pupils looked normal.

“I’m not on cocaine! Jesus Christ, Pique.” 

“You’ve been sketch as fuck lately, though,” Pique pointed out. “You keep canceling on me. You weren’t at ’Skins Night or squash this week. And you said you were in a meeting literally ten seconds ago, when obviously you were in here, you fucking weirdo.”

“My phone’s been acting up,” Cesc said, wearing his Lying Face all over, which was the same as it had been when he was five. “I sent that text before.”

“Shut up, dude,” Pique said. He poked Cesc in the ribs once more, for good measure, and turned back to the urinals. “I’m peeing, and you can have five minutes to do whatever weird shit you’re doing in here. Then you better come out and drink beer with us, or I’m calling the cops.”

“I’m not,” Cesc said, and then sighed, and leaned heavily against the wall. “Okay.”

Pique watched him a second in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes. He looked fucking _sad_ , even more like a kid than he usually did, his mouth all tight and solemn. It was weird and bad.

“Hey,” Pique said. “You wanna talk?”

“No,” Cesc said, with reassuring asperity. “Could you maybe not have your dick in your hand the next time you ask me that question?” 

Pique shook out, zipped, and ran his hands under the faucet, grinning at Cesc. “Five minutes,” he said, holding up his hand. “Then it’s forty-five days in the slammer for you and your pinky ring full of blow, young man,” and Cesc punched him awkwardly in the spine, blushing even more deeply.

Xabi had tried everything that usually worked. Callas, the von Karajan _Boheme_ , Bach’s first Cello Suite; he’d turned on that stupid website that made rain sounds. It was no good. Everything was horrible, and he couldn’t stop checking his phone. (Fruitless, miserable exercise: fourteen missed calls from David Villa's cell, eleven from a 202 number that had to be his desk phone.)

What was he expecting? A call, a cheery fucking text? They had the new ad scripts to approve. Iker had to say something about amFAR in four hours. Albiol wanted to know where to deploy his volunteers. Landon Donovan would be on TV tonight yapping about “smooth talk” and “lack of experience” while Xabi was at the Washington Hilton wasting hours trying to be charming in a tux. And Fabregas needed...whatever Fabregas had needed. 

And yet all he was able to do was sit here, like a fucking idiot.

He picked up his BlackBerry, then put it down again. Then, before he could think better of it, he typed a quick message and pressed Send.

He held the phone for a second. Then he shoved it into the bottom of his desk, dumped his printer manual on top of it, locked the drawer, and stared at his laptop.

He erased “bad” and wrote “epidemic.”

“Frick,” Xabi said aloud, and put his head in his hands.

“Xabi’s collapsing,” Kaka said, raising his head.

“What, is your G--d--- Spidey Sense tingling?” Cris said, eyeing him suspiciously over his magazine. “You haven’t answered the question. ‘Which outfit do you wear when you want to drive your man wild? A), a floral sundress with your cutest peep-toe heels, B), a football jersey and panties --’ ”

“No, I heard him yell,” Kaka explained. He pushed back his chair.

“You should learn to tune out those frequencies, like I do,” Cris said, putting his feet back on Kaka’s desk. “How are you ever going to learn which TV bachelor is right for you if you don’t pick an answer?”

Kaka patted him absently on the head and went down the hall. 

In Xabi’s office a mournful aria was playing, but of Xabi himself there was no sign. Kaka frowned and peered anxiously around the door; behind Xabi’s desk he could just see the splayed soles of an impeccably polished pair of Ferragamo oxfords.

“Are you lying on the floor?” Kaka asked sympathetically.

“F--- off,” Xabi said. 

Kaka leaned over the desk but still couldn’t see him. “What do you need help with?”

“Nothing,” Xabi said. His voice was muffled in a way that suggested his arms were over his face. “Everything. I just need a second, all right?”

“I was thinking I could do those talking points for the gala tonight,” Kaka suggested, gently. “I know you said you’d take care of it, but what do you think.”

There was a silence. Then Xabi said grudgingly, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Kaka said. “I’m going to get you some tea.”

“I hate f---ing tea.”

“I know,” Kaka said. 

Back out in the hallway Cris was waiting for him, leaning against the wall, the magazine rolled up under his arm. “What’s with the boss?”

“I think he had a tough morning,” Kaka said. He closed Xabi’s office door, very softly.

“Has he ever not had a tough morning?” Cris objected. “By the way, did you see I’m Jezebel’s number one guilty-pleasure crush again? ‘Despite Cris Ronaldo’s Snooki tan and obvious gel-dependency problem’ -- do you think I have a Snooki tan?”

“I don’t know what that is,” Kaka admitted. 

“You’re cute,” Cris said, pinching his cheek fondly. “You’re like a Martian.”

“I wish he would go home,” Kaka said, casting a last concerned glance back at the door to Xabi’s office. “He could conference in for the poll results, and maybe take a nap. I worry about him.”

Cris snorted. “Good luck. Whoops --”

He threw an arm across Kaka’s chest, just in time to keep him from slamming into Canales and his laptop as they rounded the hallway corner. 

“Whoa,” Canales said, tripping back a couple of steps. “Sorry. Is Xabi in his office? He’s not picking up his phone.” He looked lovely and concerned, like an overworked cherub.

“Tough morning,” Kaka said. “Worse than usual. What do you need?”

“And are you trying to grow a beard?” Cris added, squinting critically at him. “I don’t like it. You look like you’re molting.” He poked curiously at Canales’s chin.

“No,” Canales said, blushing furiously and raising the laptop like a shield. “I just didn’t have time to shave, that’s all.”

“For a _week_ , Patches?” Cris asked.

“What can we help you with, Sergio,” Kaka cut in.

“I’ve got Ramos on the phone,” Canales said. “He wants to know how Mr. Casillas is getting to the Omni tonight, and I said we’d probably get Pepe to drive him, and he said which route and when exactly, and I didn’t know.”

“I doubt Xabi knows either,” Kaka said, steering the boy back down the hall. “Go back to your desk, I’ll get in touch with Iker.”

“Plus I have to pick up his tux from the cleaners,” Canales said.

“Intern!” Cris yelled. 

There was a little scuffle, and then Mesut’s head popped out of the office kitchen, followed closely by Marcelo’s.

“We can with something assist?” Mesut asked eagerly.

“Mmh gofhg hbb,” added Marcelo, spraying Oreo crumbs. “Scuse me.”

“You,” Cris said, pointing at Mesut, “go pick up Iker’s suit from Lee’s. Do you have shit on your fingers?”

“My hands are maintained most scrupulously clean,” Mesut said, holding them up. 

“Okay,” Cris said, nodding. “Fetch!” and Mesut scampered to the elevator. 

“Hey man I was thinking we should really definitely have a blog or something, like I was talking to that guy who fixes computers, what’s his name, Granero, and I told him Don’t you think we should have a blog and he was like Dude we _should_ and I said yeah it could be like really good and then people would know when we do things or whatever and we could have funny links sometimes like the other day there was this grizzly bear cub and it tries to get in a bucket but it can’t fit and it’s so cute,” Marcelo said. “I could write it!”

“That is a nice thought,” said Kaka supportively, as Cris said “Sweet Lord,” and Canales said, with more authority than Kaka would have thought possible, “ _No._ ”

“Why don't you just make a cup of tea for Xabi,” Kaka said, glaring at his colleagues. "Then you can help me sort some mailings."

“Okay,” Marcelo said cheerfully. “Let me just grab some more Oreos.”

“I like our interns,” Kaka said, watching him go. “They’re so...keen.”

“Man, you _are_ a Martian,” Cris said, tweaking Kaka’s ear. “Never change.”

“Why aren’t you picking up your cell?” Alex said, barging into Stevie’s office without knocking.

“For Christ’s sake, Al,” Stevie said, almost dropping his coffee. He glanced instinctively at the bottom drawer of his desk, where he’d locked his phone to prevent himself doing anything idiotic. “I’ve been busy.”

“I’m sure you have,” Alex said. “Listen, you’ve still got a tux, haven’t you?”

“It won’t fit your new boyfriend, if that’s what you want,” Stevie said. “He’s got cartoon shoulders. He’s like a G.I. Joe.”

“Anyone would think you were jealous,” Alex said, flicking a strand of perfectly smooth blonde hair out of her face. “As a matter of fact, Aitor’s had to rush off to New York on business. Client of his needs more defined abs in the next three days, for Vanity Fair. That’s what I wanted to tell you about. You know the amFAR gala is tonight?”

“Why would I know that,” Stevie objected.

“Well, it is, and now I need an emergency backup date. Thought you might like a night out of that tragic divorcé apartment of yours.” She sniffed. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about buying a new couch, by the way. That one you’ve got looks like it came from Target.”

The couch had, in fact, come from Target. “Because it’s so much less tragic to have to put on a monkey suit and squire my ex-wife around all night?” Stevie said. “Why don’t I just watch the girls? I could just take them a day early --”

“I promise you, the girls are perfectly happy with Thomas this evening,” Alex said. “He’s taking them to Discovery Zone. I’m not saying they don’t adore you, but I think if you take Discovery Zone away from them your relationship will suffer.”

“You’ll get more attention if you go stag,” Stevie pointed out.

“There will be no one at this fundraiser from whom I want attention,” Alex said, with a little shudder. “I’m actually going to need you to deflect a couple of people.”

“Naturally,” Stevie said. “No. Find someone else.”

“You owe me,” Alex said, in uncompromising tones.

“You wouldn’t cash that in today,” Stevie said, a chill running down his spine. “Would you? Look, I’ve had an appalling morning. I just want to get home, watch the Redskins game, and get blotto with Carra.”

“You _owe_ me,” Alex repeated.

Stevie deflated a little. “Al. Allie. Please, just not this. Not tonight.”

“You can TiVo the game,” Alex said. “I’m sorry, Stevie, but I’m not going alone. This is the biggest event until the Christmas rotation, and I’m not going to have _Washington Life_ speculating that I’ve driven away another man, it’s simply too boring. You’re my sole neutral option.”

“Alex,” Stevie said, seriously. “I will pay you. I will pay you money to defer this favor to another day.”

“I don’t need your money,” Alex said. “One of many things Beyonce and I have in common. Unless you want me to tell Uncle Roy your cell phone number --”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I certainly would,” Alex said, ruthlessly.

“Oh God, Alex, come on,” Stevie pleaded.

“I’ll have a car pick you up at six-fifteen,” Alex said. “You needn’t buy me a corsage. Ta,” and the door clicked behind her, leaving Stevie alone with a renewed headache, a sense of doom, and a lingering waft of Privé Rose.

“ _Frick_ ,” Stevie said, and put his head in his hands.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Alex didn’t even bother calling him, or getting out of the car. He knew she’d arrived because of the forty-five straight seconds of honking.

“For Christ’s sake,” Stevie muttered, banging down the stairs -- his tie only half done -- and out onto the drive. She had the door open, one long tanned leg stretched out.

“Finally,” Alex said, rolling her eyes. “I nearly came up. What were you, on the toilet?”

“You do realize other people live in this building?” Stevie said, thumping into the passenger seat. “You can’t just honk and expect me to know who it’s directed to.”

He had to stop for a second, just to take her in. She was Amazonian and pouty and magnificent, poured into a tight, glittering black dress with some poofy fancy thing happening around the shoulders and sleeves: her eyes were smoky and her honey-golden hair was piled high. One thing you could say for Alex, when she turned it on she turned it the hell _on_.

Stevie whistled admiringly through his teeth. “Wow. You look like a _very_ expensive prostitute.”

“Thank you,” Alex said, unperturbed. She put the car in reverse and glanced back out the rear windshield. “So listen, I should warn you, Iker Casillas is one of the speakers tonight.”

It just figured, really. He would have been more upset, but once there was enough evidence that the universe simply hated you, you moved pretty rapidly from anger to acceptance. “Of course he is.”

“I think it’s for the best,” Alex said, maneuvering out into traffic. Stevie clutched instinctively at the dashboard; he’d forgotten what a fucking maniac of a driver she was. Although, on the bright side, maybe they would die in a flaming wreck and then he wouldn’t have to go to this fundraiser.

“Because you think I should suffer,” Stevie said.

“No, because you’re a grown man,” Alex said, taking her eyes off the road to glare at him. “I’m sure Xabi was _very_ mean and your fight was _very_ big and important and you cried and threw away your friendship bracelets, but really, Stevie. Suck it up.”

“You sound like Pepe,” Stevie said grumpily.

“Pepe and I are both adults,” Alex said, all smug and horrible.

“If you’re such an adult, how come you’re still not talking to Abbey Clancy,” Stevie countered.

“Sarah Burton made that dress for me _personally_!” Alex said, her voice rising. “That Clancy slag _knew_ I was going to wear it and she _copied me_. It wasn’t even a good copy, it was cheap and she looked cheap in it because she _is_ cheap and I don’t even care if sixty-two percent of idiots who read _People_ think she wore it better.”

“Yeah, you’re all about mature conflict resolution,” Stevie said.

“Oh, go to hell,” Alex said, and turned left hard without putting her signal on. A chorus of furious honking pursued them down the street. “I was going to steer you clear of the campaign staff, but see if I do anything to help you now.”

“When have you ever?” Stevie said, which even in his extremity he knew was unfair, and Alex punched him hard on the arm.

The worst of it was, he’d been planning to ignore Xabi’s text. He suspected, actually, that Xabi already regretted sending it. Stevie still sort of couldn’t believe that he had. It wasn’t like Xabi to put himself where he clearly wasn’t wanted. He studied the phone again.

 

Couldn’t ignore it now, of course. They were doomed to run into each other, and Stevie was damned if _he_ was going to look like the childish one. If Xabi wanted to pretend they were friends and everything was hunky-dory, fine. Stevie could do that.

He pressed Send before he could think better of it and glared aimlessly out of the window.

“Don’t sulk,” Alex said. “If you don’t make an effort, this won’t count as a favor and I’m still going to give Roy your number.”

“You are a _harpy_ ,” Stevie said. “No wonder we got divorced,” but he was in such a foul mood that the words came out sounding venomous and sincere, and Alex glanced at him in surprise.

“Sorry,” he said, reaching out to press her hand quickly. “Didn’t mean it. You know.”

“I know,” she said, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. It would’ve been quite sweet, except that the movement made the car swerve sharply to the right, nearly crossing the center line, and Stevie swore and threw his arm across her (the same way, he realized a shamefaced second later, his mother used to do when he was learning to drive) and accidentally encountered her sequined bosom.

“Are those -- bigger?” he said, blinking at her.

“None of your business,” Alex said primly, and ran another yellow light.

 

“Kaka wrote this?” Iker said with a certain amount of amazement, flipping through the pages. “‘The best weapon most of us have against the devastating spread of AIDS is to teach our children to communicate honestly and straightforwardly about sex’ -- that kid couldn’t communicate about sex if it learned to speak English and bought a bullhorn. He does know what ‘sex’ is? Are we sure he believes in it?”

“No, he does,” Xabi said. “He just thinks it’s a precious gift that Jesus would strongly prefer you to have only with your special forever person, or something.” While he and Kaka had, mercifully, never had a conversation about sex, Xabi had gathered -- mostly from Ronaldo’s scattered and derogatory remarks -- that this was the gist. (Kaka’s Jesus, Ronaldo was fond of saying, was _never mad, just disappointed_.)

“You don’t think there’s a certain amount of irony,” Iker began, twisting his mouth wryly to the side.

“Remember what we’ve been working on,” Xabi said, ignoring this. “Talk a little slower. Try to maybe look up every once in a while.”

“I lose track of where I am though,” Iker said. “Unless you want me to trace the words with my finger like I’m illiterate --”

“This is a skill you’ll have to acquire eventually,” Xabi said. “Unless you want Free Republic saying you can’t talk without a Teleprompter.”

“Respectfully, Freepers can suck it,” Iker said.

“I’ll be sure to include the ‘respectfully’ when I tell Jonah Goldberg you said that,” Ferreira said cheerfully from the front seat, catching Iker’s eyes.

“Don’t even joke,” Xabi warned him. “Say that guy’s name three times and he appears and paints a fucking Hitler moustache on you.”

“What happened to your clean talk crusade?” Iker asked.

“Look, we’re not in fucking public, what do you want from me,” Xabi said, with unnecessary vehemence.

Iker raised his hands in surrender. “How’d your meeting with Pepe go? Other Pepe,” he added to Ferreira, who had looked up in surprise.

“Don’t worry about it,” Xabi said coolly. “It wasn’t a real meeting; just muffins.” He adjusted his cufflinks minutely, and Iker felt a sad little flare of jealousy. He’d let Xabi stuff him into a suit that seemed too small (“Because it _fits_ you for once,” Xabi had practically wailed) and a tie that must have cost about fifty bucks per square inch _and_ a pocket square; and still, looking in the mirror, he’d seen only a surly twelve-year-old being forced to dress up for church. Xabi, on the other hand, looked like he’d sprung effortless and fully-formed from the head of Simon Doonan.

“Who taught you to dress?” Iker asked, a little mournfully.

“My father,” Xabi said, lifting his chin to fine-tune his tie in the rearview mirror. “And _Mad Men._ ”

“Here,” Ferreira said, pulling the car over.

“Thanks, Pepe,” Xabi said. He glanced at Iker. “Ready?”

“Okay,” Iker said.

Xabi nodded, snapped the door handle and scooted out. The flashbulbs started to strobe and pop wildly: paparazzi in D.C., Iker had noticed, got so excited about anything approaching glamour or celebrity that they had a tendency to get a little overheated.

He slid out into the crisp autumn evening. Xabi was holding the door for him, looking solicitous and superior, like Jeeves with a three-day beard. Iker gave the photographers a sheepish, perfunctory wave and then leaned in close to Xabi and asked, in their practiced, near-ventriloquist whisper, “When do I see--”

“You have to mingle after the speech,” Xabi said tightly. “Come on, walk.”

“But --” Automatically Iker started down the red carpet.

“Next time you want to ask me about this you do it in the car,” Xabi said. His face was still expressionless. A couple of photographers were yelling _Iker, over here! Xabi, hey Xabi, give us a smile, huh? Give us the finger?_

“I thought because of Pepe,” Iker tried to explain. “I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Eight thirty, all right,” Xabi said, shielding his mouth with his hand. “Eight thirty, you can come talk to me.” His phone buzzed. He took it out, scanned it quickly, turned an interesting color and stuffed it into his coat again, actually _wincing_.

“Like I could avoid you,” Iker said. “Was that Villa?”

“No,” Xabi said shortly. “You’ll have to avoid me, because you’ll be circulating, like I goddamn -- like I told you to. Conversation over,” and Iker had to be content with that.

 

When the door to Cesc’s townhouse opened, Cesc wasn’t inside.

“Sup, Jack,” Pique said, peering past Cesc’s roommate. “Is Fabregas here?” He held up his Safeway bag. “I brought him beer and EasyMac and Modern Warfare 2 since you guys still won’t buy it.”

“Dude, I would if I had the money,” Jack said. “What is he, sick or something?”

“Nah dude, I don’t know,” Pique said. “Is he home?”

“Cesc!” Jack yelled over his shoulder. There was a muffled response, and then Cesc came into view down the stairs. He was wearing dress pants and an untucked shirt, a loose black tie slung around his neck, and his hair was wet, like he’d just gotten out of the shower. His forehead creased when he saw Pique, and he said, “Hey?”

“I brought you some shit,” Pique said, waving the plastic bag again.

“Why?” Cesc said, with hurtful suspicion.

“Because you’re being all,” Pique gestured at him, “sad and creepy. You said maybe two words at lunch. Which is fine, but after a while it gets annoying.”

“Oh,” Cesc said on a long breath. He dropped his head and scrubbed a hand through his hair, then looked up at Pique with his wrinkled, worried expression. “That’s nice, man, that was -- a nice thing to do.”

“Fucking right it was,” Pique agreed, strolling past Jack and throwing himself onto their couch. “Crank up the microwave. Tonight we dine like men.”

“Shit, dude, I can’t,” Cesc said, going pink. “I have to go to a thing.” He waved a hand, indicating his half-assembled outfit. “This, uh, fundraiser thing for work.”

“Great,” Pique said, reasonably. “I’ll be your date. Otherwise you’ll look all single and pathetic like always.”

He expected Cesc to roll his eyes, blush, complain, make objections about Pique’s unfitness to be seen in public or finding a suit enormous enough to fit Pique’s freakish body. What he wasn’t expecting was what Cesc did, which was just to shake his head and say, with weird adult seriousness, “Not tonight, man.”

Pique blinked at him. “Why?”

“Because,” Cesc said simply. “Sorry. I’ll call you later, okay?” and then he vanished back up the stairs. The sound of his door closing echoed down the hall.

“What the fuck,” Jack said, watching his back.

“I know!” Pique said, torn between outrage and concern.

They stared up the stairs in bewildered silence for another minute, and then Pique said, “Should I like. Go talk to him?” He was surprised to hear a note of uncertainty in his own voice, which wasn’t like him at all.

“I don’t know?” Jack said, sounding -- small comfort -- at least as nervously confused as Pique had.

They weren’t exactly friends, but they were suddenly allies, so Pique said, “Look, I’m gonna leave this stuff. Take my cell number, okay? Just -- you know, keep me updated,” and Jack said he would and he’d ask their other roommates, too, and there wasn’t much else to say about it so Pique started back home.

While he was walking up 14th it occurred to him to call Carlota, so he did.

“What the shit is wrong with your brother?” he said when she picked up.

“What the shit is wrong with _you?_ ” Carlota countered. In the background Pique could hear what sounded like the television, something with a lot of violins. “Adults generally start with ‘hi’ and ‘how are you.’”

“Hi, how are you, what the shit is wrong with your brother, seriously,” Pique said. “At lunch he was like doing coke or something in the bathroom, and then I just went over to his house and he kicked me out. Kicked _me_ out!”

“Wh -- Pique, did you say -- hang on,” Carlota said. There was a little rustle and he heard her voice, muffled, like she was talking to someone. The lower rumble of another voice, answering: then the television noise faded. “Okay. What were you saying? Coke? What?”

“ _Carlota_ ,” Pique said, momentarily sidetracked. “Are you with a _man_?”

“None of your business,” Carlota said.

Rude. “Um, it’s my business inasmuch as if he touches you anywhere between your forehead and your knees, your bro and I are going to have to track him down and knock all his teeth out,” Pique said. “Men are dogs. They’re only after one thing. Actually, wait, did I say knees? Don’t get any ideas. He can’t touch your ankles either.”

Carlota sighed. “What do you _want_ , Pique?”

“Is something going on with Cesc?” Pique said. “I’m -- worried about him, I guess.” His eyeball itched.

There was a little silence. Carlota said, “What, like... _worried_ worried? Did something happen?”

“I don’t know, man,” Pique said, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. “He’s sad and he won’t talk. I thought if anybody would know what’s up, it’d be you.” He would have added tragically that he couldn’t make Cesc laugh anymore, but it wouldn’t have worked; Carlota would just have said something snide about how it was only ever a pity laugh anyway.

Carlota hummed a little. It sounded evasive. “Listen. I’m sure whatever it is, he’ll tell you when he’s ready.”

“But, so, did he tell _you_ anything was wrong?” Pique said, in his most forlorn voice, which was usually effective with women.

“I promise you, Pique, he’s gonna be fine,” Carlota said. She sounded distracted. It was annoying. Who was this dude she was with, anyway? How old was Carlota now? Was she even legal or was this guy, like, a _pervert_?

She was saying, “It’s good that -- that you’re there for him, you know. If he needs you, I’m sure he’ll tell you.”

Pique wanted to inform her that Cesc undoubtedly _did_ need him but was somehow ignorant of the fact. Instead he said, “If this kid wants to sit next to you on the couch, I’m gonna need him to wear one of those full-body sacks, like Mormons.”

“What? Mormons?” Carlota said. “Go away, Pique.”

“Thanks for your help, dick,” Pique said. “Watch homeboy’s hands. Only after one thing, remember?”

“That’s okay,” Carlota said, “so am I,” and hung up, leaving Pique gaping admiringly at his phone.

 

Sergio met them at the hotel door, where he’d been conferring with one of the bellboys. He was wearing a suit made of -- Jesus, what, _velveteen?_ \-- and an iridescent paisley shirt, unbuttoned practically to the sternum. And aviators. His hair looked like it would crack if you bent it.

“Really, Ramos?” Xabi said, surveying him with undisguised disdain.

“How come he gets to dress like that and you don’t make _him_ go change?” Iker demanded. “My other suit at least looked like a suit!”

“Because I don’t _care_ that everyone in this hotel is going to make fun of him all night,” Xabi explained. “My career doesn’t ride on it.”

Sergio listened to this exchange with a grin of pure unconcern, and then shook Xabi’s hand and said, “Good to see you too, _tío_ ,” and kissed Iker on both cheeks, with a lot of unnecessary smacking. “You guys are late. Fashionably. I’m impressed.”

“How’s it look in there?” Xabi asked as they moved inside.

“Seriously unthreatening,” Sergio said, tweaking the coiled cord that ran from his ear down into his violently pink collar. Oh, Jesus, his cufflinks had little diamond skulls on them. “The main thing you’re in danger of, Casillas, is being mobbed by a crowd of hormonal socialites. Worse things could happen. I’m going to hang back. You have your panic button?”

“I still think it’s ridiculous,” Iker muttered.

“Show me that you have it,” Sergio said implacably, and Iker pulled the thing resentfully out of his pocket and then shoved it back in again.

“Do you remember how to use it?”

“For God’s sake, Sergio, it’s literally one button,” Iker said, and Sergio said, “Well, show me that you can use it,” and Iker said, “No,” and it was exactly like being a fucking camp counselor.

“I’m going to find Alvaro,” Xabi cut in. “And a drink.”

He moved with purpose across the ballroom. He didn’t usually mind events like this; liked wearing the suit, didn’t mind sweet-talking donors, all that stuff. But tonight he only wanted to be at home, possibly cooking some elaborate dinner and then watching _Casablanca_ and drinking himself into a stupor. He checked his phone again: a sick compulsion, like picking a scab.

 

Ugh, ugh ugh ugh ugh.

It was unexpected and sort of pleasant, therefore, that at the bar he ran into one of the very few people on the planet he could currently stand.

“You don’t have any right to look this good pregnant,” he informed her, kissing her cheek. She smelled like Chanel and powder, sweet, elegant.

Nagore smiled her lovely, dark, glowing smile. “Flatterer.”

“It’s true.” It was. “What are you doing by the bar? You’ll have the baby police after you.”

“I refuse to raise a child who can’t appreciate a good Malbec,” Nagore said firmly. “And this one’s good. He’ll have the same as me,” she added to the bartender, who nodded.

“Where’s the father?” Xabi asked, casting around.

“Oh, he’s around,” Nagore said, waving a careless hand. “You know how he is. Missed your networking genes, somehow.”

“It’s the culture shock I have a problem with, actually,” Mikel said, appearing behind her. He kissed his wife’s ear and leaned in to clasp one arm around Xabi’s back. “Four hours ago I was pulling a Matchbox car out of Carlos Robinson’s nostril, so it’s weird to be around so many people who can tie their own shoes. How’s it going, _hermanito?_ ”

“Could be worse,” Xabi said honestly, taking his wineglass from the bartender. “Branching out into surgery, are you?”

“You would not believe how many times the professions overlap,” Mikel said, sighing. “Third grade is an interesting time.”

“Your wife is pregnant-drinking, I feel bound to tell you,” Xabi said, clinking his glass against Nagore’s. She’d been right, the wine was excellent.

“Yes, obviously I’ll have to divorce her,” Mikel said peacefully. “So. Are you taking care of yourself? Eating, sleeping -- ”

Xabi cringed. Sometimes when he talked to Mikel he could sense himself reverting, felt the urge to say things like _Leave me alone! You’re not my dad!_ “Yes.”

“I just worry about you, that’s all,” Mikel said. “We both do.” Nagore nodded, leaning briefly against Mikel’s shoulder, and Xabi felt a kind of pang. Nothing had ever happened between them, but he’d certainly been circling Nagore when he’d met her at the firm -- trying to judge her interest, trying to judge his own -- and there had been a real frisson of possibility between them: the first Xabi had felt in a while. And then he had made the whopping error of introducing her to his older brother.

(Someone whose opinion Xabi respected had once, after meeting his brother, said in awe, “Good lord. He’s you, minus the workaholism and seething core of repressed anger. Plus he’s better-looking.”

“Well, wow,” Xabi had said, and Steven had said comfortingly, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to trade you in. Professionally, I expect he’s useless.”)

Nagore, apparently, had not had professional partnership in mind; so that had been the end of that. And it wasn’t that he was jealous of Mikel, not exactly. He wasn’t jealous of anyone. He’d always prioritized his career.

“Listen, I’ve got to find Arbeloa,” he said abruptly. “Seen him around?”

“No, but if we do I’ll tell him you’re looking,” Mikel said. “Can we have dinner next week?”

“Twenty bucks says we can’t, Miki,” Nagore murmured, aside.

“Next week’s not good,” Xabi said. “I mean, you know. It’s September. I just don’t have the time. In a couple of months --”

“I’ll come to your office,” Mikel suggested. “I’ll bring you a sandwich. It’ll take ten minutes.”

“Hnnh,” Xabi said vaguely, and then spotted Alvaro -- or, anyway, somebody tall who might plausibly have been Alvaro -- moving away from them, toward the ballroom’s upper level. “Sorry, guys, there’s Arbeloa, I’ve gotta -- I’m sure I’ll see you,” and escaped. _Concern_ : was there anything worse?

It wasn’t Arbeloa, which was all right, since actually there was no pressing need for Xabi to find him. If there was one person he trusted to have his ducks in a row -- and there were, on the whole planet, no more than three -- it was Alvaro. Besides, this event wasn’t complex. Get Iker to dinner, on the stage, back down; don’t let him fall over or set his sleeve on fire.

Xabi found a quiet spot and leaned against a column, savoring his wine and watching the well-dressed crowd swirl and murmur below. The jazz combo they had playing this thing wasn’t half bad; they were doing quite a decent “Ask Me Now,” and somewhat to his own surprise Xabi realized that he had -- for the first time in days -- begun to relax.

The woman in front of the stage caught his eye because she wasn’t dressed for D.C., although -- after some consideration -- in a good way. A tiny dress that caught the light like a disco ball, long golden legs up to _there_ , hooflike ankle boots of which he disapproved on principle (though he had to admit, grudgingly, that she was making them look slightly less terrible than usual).

Then she turned around, and he saw that she was Alex Curran, and the man next to her --

Xabi ducked around the pillar and flattened himself against it, heart leaping into his throat.

It occurred to him that this was absurd. He was thirty years old, for God’s sake, a respected professional. His name had once been an answer in the New York Times crossword. The tall guy with Alex wasn’t even, necessarily, Steven; he’d heard she was dating some big-deal personal trainer now.

These facts were relevant, but not compelling. He stayed there for a minute, just holding still. When he felt steady, he peered nervously around the side of the column, half-hiding his face behind his wineglass -- and locked immediately onto a pair of familiar blue eyes, thirty feet away.

 

“Why,” Xabi said, to the universe.

Steven looked at him, unblinking. Xabi, because what the fuck else was he supposed to do, tightened his mouth and managed a hopeless little half-wave, like an idiot. After a moment Steven opened one hand, less like a wave than a traffic cop stopping a car. And now they were fucked, because Alex was turning around, because he’d sent that stupid text, because they were in public: so Xabi pasted something like a smile on his face and forced himself to jog down to them.

 

“Behave,” Alex hissed, elbowing him in the side. She gave Xabi her magnificent smile over one shoulder. “He’s coming over.”

“I am behaving,” Stevie said, resisting the urge to drop everything and sprint. He swallowed the rest of his gin and tonic without even tasting it.

“This is excellent,” Alex said with satisfaction. “You’ll have to talk to each other, or everyone in this room will know what a couple of three-year-olds you are. Hiyaaaa, gorgeous--”

They looked right together, Stevie thought resentfully, watching them. Xabi in one of those fucking suits of his, as slim and effortless as some terrible Euro magazine spread; Alex like a black bird-of-paradise. Xabi kissed her on both cheeks, and then turned to Stevie.

“Are you seriously wearing brown shoes with that suit,” was the first thing Xabi said. Then his ears went pink. Alex cackled.

“Are you seriously asking me that question?” Stevie said, but oddly, the pure _Xabi_ -ness of it made him feel a little better.

“Sorry,” Xabi said. He looked up at the ceiling. “Um. So how are you? Since this morning.”

“Slightly worse,” Stevie said.

“Ask me instead,” Alex suggested. “I’m doing brilliantly.”

“I could tell,” Xabi said, graciously. “You look beautiful. As always. The dress -- is it Balmain?”

“It _is_ ,” Alex said, delighted. “Darling, I _have_ missed you.”

“And -- uh -- how are the girls?” Xabi said, and bit his lip, and Stevie felt a surge of strangeness. He decided it was anger. Xabi didn’t have the right to ask about his kids; in the last two years he hadn’t showed a speck of interest in them. Someone had abandoned their mostly-full drink on the table behind him, so Stevie took it.

“Growing like weeds,” Alex was saying. “You wouldn’t believe Lily-Ella. She’s practically human. Lexie’s delightful except when she’s having an attack of the Terrible Fours, which make me wonder if maybe with her it’s just going to be the Terrible Always. You know,” as if it had just occurred to her, “I’m sure they’d love to see you --”

“Oh, I --” Xabi said, casting a panicked glance at Stevie, “with the election coming up, er -- but maybe we’ll talk, you know, after.”

“They always _adored_ you,” Alex went on. “You were lovely with them. Such a natural with children. I keep wondering why you haven’t already made a dishonest woman out of some pretty girl yourself.”

Xabi’s eyebrows went up nearly to his hairline. “Uh,” he said.

“Alex,” Stevie hissed, his face burning, “you can’t just --”

“Well I’m only _asking_ ,” Alex said, and then trilled, “Ah, hello love -- smile, boys!” and Stevie turned and was immediately blinded by the dazzling flare of a camera, about a foot away. He blinked away red-and-white stars, eyelids twitching slightly.

“Oh dear, that’s going to look ridiculous,” Alex said, regarding Stevie’s face. “One more, will you?” and the photographer did it again. Stevie heard a stifled noise of pained surprise from Alex’s other side, which was comforting.

“Gorgeous,” Alex said with satisfaction.

“You and Stevie working together again, Xabi?” the photographer asked, and there was another series of blinding pops.

“What?” Xabi said. He sounded as close to panicked as Stevie had ever heard him, which was admittedly not very.

“No no, we’re just having dinner at the weekend,” Alex said blithely, and turned to Stevie, dismissing the photographer with a wave of one shimmering arm. “How’s my hair? Why am I asking you? Xabi, love, how’s my hair?”

“I can’t really see it,” Xabi said, blinking one eye at a time. He looked dazed. “I’m sure it’s still just fine.”

“You’re not really inspiring confidence,” Alex said. “Let me run to the ladies’. Don’t go anywhere.”

They watched her go.

“She’s still something,” Xabi said.

“Something is the word,” Stevie said, and then for some reason added, “Sorry about her.”

“Don’t apologize,” Xabi said. “I -- haven’t talked to her in a while. It’s nice.”

“It’s her whole. Having dinner? And making us take photos,” Stevie said, wishing he’d just kept fucking quiet. “Thinks we should -- I don’t know.”

“I’m the one who should be -- sorry, if anyone is, or whatever,” Xabi said. He huffed out air. “I didn’t think, this morning. I mean, I know you work at EPL, obviously, I just -- I thought Pepe would have told you I was coming, and --”

“And we could have just avoided each other as usual?” Stevie said.

“That was my plan,” Xabi admitted.

“Right,” Stevie said. “Didn’t work.”

“Let’s blame that on Pepe,” Xabi suggested. “Then we can stab him.”

Stevie couldn’t help his quick bark of laughter, and Xabi looked down and away, his forehead crinkling in that sheepish, familiar way. Now that he was right there it was hard to summon the same force of rage that Stevie had been cultivating against him for so long: he looked so much like the guy Stevie had known for more than a decade now, so little like the calculating bastard he’d spent the last two years wanting to kick the shit out of. And it wasn’t as if -- a short hot rush of shame reminded him -- as if what had happened had been _entirely_ Xabi’s fault.

Downing that abandoned drink had been a mistake, Stevie realized. It made him want to say things.

“I shouldn’t’ve come over,” Xabi was saying. “I wouldn’t have. I wanted to leave you alone, only then Alex saw me, and it would have been worse.”

“We ought to be able to be civil, I suppose,” Stevie said. It had meant a lot at the time, of course, but people grew up, didn’t they? People moved on. They didn’t have to be friends again, they didn’t have to trust each other, but surely they could _talk_. That would be all right.

“I’d like that,” Xabi said. Nearly invisible in his face was the hesitant non-smile Stevie remembered, that awkward college-kid expression.

The lights over them started to dim, and Xabi turned quickly toward the front of the room. “I should get to our table; Iker’ll be speaking. I -- don’t worry, I don’t really think we’re having dinner or anything. But still, you know.”

“Hmph,” Stevie said, still pushed off-balance. “Well. I’ll tell Alex her little plot sort of worked, that’ll be nice for her.”

“It’s true,” Xabi said. He drank off his glass of wine, and his mouth twisted wryly. “Nothing brings two men together quite like feeling emasculated by the same woman.”

It made him feel weak or gullible or something, but he found himself laughing again anyway, because it was funny. He’d nearly forgotten that Xabi could be funny.

“Go away,” he said. “Could change my mind any second.”

Xabi ducked his head, raised his glass. “Your shoes,” he said. “Really.”

Then he was gone, and Stevie stood looking after him for a second, wondering.

 

Iker had plowed through the speech in about eight minutes. It didn’t bode well for Xabi’s postmortem, he knew, but the applause had been rousing and at least half the people shaking his hand seemed to have been genuinely moved. Rahm Emanuel was probably not one of them, but since Iker suspected that Rahm had never been moved in his life to anything but apopleptic rage, that was kind of okay.

“Hey, asshole,” Rahm said, sticking a hand out. His smallness only made him sort of more terrifying, like the dense core of a black hole. “Nine points behind? What the fuck are you doing with the fucking thousands of dollars I keep giving to your PACs?”

“Good to see you too,” Iker said. “How are y--”

“Not so fucking well,” Rahm said, running over the question like a train. “It’s September, so you know what the fuck that means.”

Iker shook his head, trying not to look like he was looking over Rahm’s head for someone else.

“Fucking ‘Nutcracker’ season,” Rahm said bitterly. “For the next two months -- ‘Dee-der dee-der dee der dee derrrrr deeee,’ fucking just stab me right in the roof of the mouth. Just drive a fucking butter knife directly into my brain.” He demonstrated, jabbing a finger under his chin. “You know Alonso was in that with me when we were kids.”

Iker realized his mouth was hanging slightly open. “What. No he wasn’t.”

“Oh, bitch, believe it,” Rahm said. “Before he went abroad. I guess he was about six. He was a toy soldier, I was a mouse. A fucking mouse! It was bullshit, that prissy shit Ferdinand getting the Rat King. Oh, boo hoo, he had _poise!_ His _arms!_ You know what, his arms can suck my balls. He had all the stage presence of a fucking potted cactus and he still does today.”

Iker nodded distractedly. Obviously he wanted to know more about Xabi’s terpsichorean past (wanted to know, mainly, if there were photos) but on the clock over Rahm’s shoulder he could see that it was eight fifty- _seven_ , and where was the fucking erstwhile Toy Soldier, he was nowhere to be found, that’s where --

“Jesus Christ,” Rahm said, “it’s like you can’t even pretend to care what I’m saying. Do you even know how many finance regulations I bent so you could have the money to buy a fucking heater for that shithole office of yours?”

“Rahm, I care deeply about you,” Iker said, forcing himself to relax. Jesus, had he ever had this much trouble just putting himself _aside_ for two seconds? “And even if I didn’t, you’d have to be nice to me. Otherwise Professor Obama gives you his stern face.”

“He doesn’t like you as much as you seem to think, you presumptuous cock,” Rahm said. “Fuck off, see if I care. I’m gonna literally just steal all of my money back, with a gun.”

“Rahm, seriously, it’s really good to see you, and not because you’re my entire advertising budget,” Iker said, and meant it, because Rahm was great to be around, and he was so different from everyone else in this town and that was great too, but just -- he could _not_ seem to keep it together.

“Whatever,” Rahm said. “I’m gonna find someone socially competent to talk to, I’ll catch you later. Oh, and tell Ronaldo he wasn’t as terrible as I thought he would be on Jon Stewart, but he was still pretty nauseating.”

“Bye, I love you,” Iker said, and Rahm gave him the finger without even turning around.

Iker cast around for a moment, lost, and then -- finally -- spotted Xabi deep in conference with Vincent Del Bosque, nodding in his most serious and professional way. Iker sort of bounced a little on his heels, trying to get his attention: finally Xabi touched Del Bosque’s arm apologetically and cut his gaze sideways, his impatience practically visible.

 _Gonna make a call_ , Iker mouthed, gesturing with his fingers at his ear in a phone-shape.

Xabi drew his fingers sharply across his throat, which was surprisingly aggressive. Del Bosque turned to look at Iker, brows lifted. Xabi smoothly regained his attention, said something else, shook his hand, and jogged across the floor to Iker.

“You’re going to make a _call?_ ” he said, in his deceptively controlled voice.

“Yeah, I have to step out so I can make a call, which you said I could make half an hour ago,” Iker said. “I’ve been circulating, Xabi, I swear to God. I just --”

Xabi said, low, “You fucking owe me, Iker. I am letting you do this in the same damn hotel because you asked me for it, which I feel almost certain I’m going to regret. So you can’t act like a teenager, you can’t fucking yell at me across the room when I’m talking to Vincent Del Bosque, all right, god _dammit_.”

“I didn’t yell,” Iker said, but in all honesty he could see Xabi’s point. “I’m sorry, man, I’m not myself tonight. I don’t know. It’s -- I’m having trouble -- I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Xabi said, although it clearly wasn’t. He shook his head tightly. “Come on.”

They made it out of the ballroom almost without incident (“Heading home already, you pussies?” Rahm crowed, and Xabi said “Just making a call,” without even missing a beat) and strode quickly down the hall to the elevators.

“I’m sorry,” Iker began.

“Don’t talk to me now,” Xabi said, so they waited in silence, took the elevator to the eighth floor without speaking. The doors dinged open and Xabi strode out into the carpeted hall: then across to the fire stairwell. He held the door open for Iker and started down the steps.

“Gonna be cameras?” Iker said quietly.

“No,” Xabi said shortly, and Iker didn’t ask how he knew.

At the fifth floor Xabi opened the door again and they went out.

“Are you pissed at me,” Iker said.

“Of course I’m fucking pissed at you,” Xabi said. “But I said you could do this -- Christ knows why, I must’ve been drunk -- so I’m pissed at me, mostly.”

A door ahead of them opened and a girl in plaid pajama pants shuffled out; “Put your head down,” Xabi hissed, and Iker did, though it made him feel like an idiot. The girl, as far as he could tell, didn’t even look at them.

They stopped at room 512, Xabi looking both ways before sliding his card in. He flipped on the light and summoned Iker inside with a jerk of his head, then closed the door, drew the chain bolt.

“I’ll be here,” he said. "You have an hour."

“I’m really sorry,” Iker said again. “I just.”

“I know,” Xabi said. “I know, okay? One hour.” He sat on the bed and slid his Blackberry out of his pocket.

Through the connecting door Iker could hear TV voices, the cheery music of a cartoon maybe, and he felt a a hot dizziness wash over him. There was a feeling behind his ribs like a tightening vise. He opened the door and slipped through.

On the bed, eyes slightly unfocused with exhaustion, was Cesc. He was in suit pants and socks, his tie loose around his neck and his shirt unbuttoned, the remote in his hand. At the soft click of the door he looked up and the tension went out of his jaw and his shoulders. He looked so fucking happy to see Iker there, so sweetly relieved.

“Hey,” Cesc said, his big doofy smile spreading across his face. Iker felt the swoop in his head and chest, like he’d gasped in fresh air after being underwater too long.

He let himself smile back, uncontrollably, and then he was practically falling to the bed, crawling up Cesc’s body, pushing his shirt up, kissing his knees and his stomach and the bare roughness of his throat, breathing in his familiar fragrant warmth. Cesc pushed up into him, his fingers crushing the fabric of Iker's shirt. Then his mouth was firm and sweet under Iker’s, and everything was okay, finally, everything was fine.

 

_Washington, DC_  
December, 2009

“You’re going to need to tell me everything you have ever done in your life that could possibly, possibly be a liability to this campaign,” Xabi had told him, and Iker had done his best. Once, after dental surgery, he’d stretched out his prescriptions a little bit longer than necessary so he could save half a bottle of Percoset for headaches. He’d paid his taxes a couple of months late when he was twenty-two, because he’d forgotten to hit “Submit” on the H&R Block site. There were some books on his shelf that definitely came from the FASU library.

“And,” Iker said. He cleared his throat. “You remember that intern? The one you said...”

“I remember,” Xabi said, absolutely without expression.

“Well,” Iker said. He was sort of amazed to discover that he’d managed never to mention Cesc to Xabi, but somehow he just -- hadn’t. The campaign hadn’t seemed real, the consequences of it, whatever; he had managed to convince himself they’d never intersect with his life, not his _actual_ life. How he’d done that he couldn’t imagine now.

He looked Xabi straight in the face and said, “We’re...uh. Going out, I guess. I mean, I like him. I’m seeing him. Socially. I swear to God, nothing happened until a couple of months ago; he’s twenty-one now,” he added, with a defensiveness that, even to him, sounded suspicious.

Xabi said nothing. He took a long drink of wine.

“You’re pissed, aren’t you,” Iker said.

“I haven’t decided,” Xabi said.

“I didn’t tell you because it’s not serious yet,” Iker said, and then pulled himself upright, because that wasn’t the truth. “No, I didn’t tell you because -- I was stupid. I don’t know. I didn’t think.”

There was a little silence.

“We could do it,” Xabi said. He was staring into the candle in the middle of his coffee table, the lines of sleeplessness cut deep into his face. “I mean, we _could._ It wouldn’t be easy, though. Well,” and he smiled at Iker, with a certain amount of effort, “it won’t be easy either way. But. It’ll be even harder.”

Iker saw Cesc then: his soft sweet smile, his clear skin and tentative shoulders. The way the pulse had winged in his throat when Iker first undressed him.

He cleared his throat. “I mean, the thing is -- two years from now? I barely see him, with school and all. Who knows what he’ll do for work. We might not even. We might not be together, you know? And then all of it will have been for nothing. So, you know. I’m not sure.”

Xabi said nothing. He blew out briefly, and shook his head.

“What if we wait?” Iker said. “What if we just keep it -- my personal life is my personal life, and then if I manage to get elected --”

“It’s not a middle-ground thing,” Xabi said quietly. “You run as someone who dates men, or you lock your shit down completely. If you want it hushed up, nobody gets to know. No public dates. No cute leaked emails. No pictures. Fuck, Iker, you can’t even talk to each other, not really. Not where anyone can hear you. This isn’t a story we can afford to lose control of. The intern thing, and he was your student -- I _know_ ,” he added, as Iker’s mouth opened in protest, “nothing happened then, and he was eighteen anyway, whatever, whatever, I know. But I’m saying, it won’t matter.”

Iker swallowed.

“You know what’s sad?” Xabi went on. He sounded a little far away, and he was toying with his empty wine glass, twirling the stem of it it in his long fingers. “If I could pick -- I mean, if I were going to pick one -- gay, or _queer_ , whatever you want to, you know -- one mainstream candidate to run, I’d pick you. Seriously. You’re good looking in a clean-cut All-American way, your moral nadir is a couple of library fines, your boyfriend’s cute --”

“We’re not saying ‘boyfriend,’” Iker said too fast.

“Whatever,” Xabi said. “I’m saying, you’re viable, even with Cesc. Just.” He smiled, a little sadly. “I wouldn’t run you against Wayne Rooney. I wouldn’t run you in Fairfield.”

Iker didn’t have anything to say. On the radio, Nina Totenberg said something about the NASDAQ.

“We could move to Vermont,” Xabi said, in a hopeless, jokey sort of voice. “Establish residency. Run in ten years.”

“Eh,” Iker said.

“I know,” Xabi said. “Vermont. What would be the point.”

“We could learn to ski,” Iker said. Then he said, “What would you do?”

Xabi gave a short humorless bark of laughter and ran a hand through his hair. “Because I’m the person to ask.”

“I mean, if it were you --”

“The problem wouldn’t arise,” Xabi said shortly. “I don’t have a -- a _love life_ , or whatever. I have a career. You make certain -- you make sacrifices.”

“Do you think I should make sacrifices?” Iker asked.

“It depends,” Xabi said. The mirthless smile was still tightening his mouth. “Would you call me a _happy_ person?”

“Huh,” Iker said.

“So you see the essential trade-off,” Xabi said.

Iker watched him.

“What do you want, a pep talk?” Xabi said, glaring back. “Okay, look. You guys will be fine. Probably. If you last that long. It’s only until the campaign ends.” He cleared his throat. “I said, when I first asked you to run, I said that you matter. I meant it, you know. I think you can be, honest to God, a force for sanity and good. But only if you get _elected_.”

“After that?” Iker said.

“After that,” Xabi echoed, and sighed. “Shit, Iker, I don’t know. We’ll have you send out a joint Christmas card. I’m not fucking Sister Cleo. What do you want from me?”

“I should probably talk to Cesc about this, huh,” Iker said.

“Probably.” Xabi put his wine glass down, decisively, and started for the kitchen.

“This is going to suck,” Iker said. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Xabi said. In the stylishly low light of his apartment it was hard to tell his expression.

“But it’ll be worth it,” Iker said.

“I don’t know,” Xabi said. “I’m not the Psychic Hotline, I told you.”

“Asshole,” Iker said, “come on, just --”

“It’s worth it,” Xabi said. He rested his hand lightly on Iker’s shoulder. “It’ll be worth it, Iker. Okay?”

“Okay,” Iker said. He rubbed his mouth, closed his eyes for a second. “Okay.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

_William Shankly Statehouse_  
Fairfield City, FA  
May, 2008

At first all Iker could think, stupidly, was how _soft_ the kid looked. Soft sloe eyes, soft mouth, soft dark hair you wanted to slide your fingers into and grip. Even the quick once-over he gave Iker -- a candid, unmistakeable invitation in those eyes -- was soft somehow, artless, young. Iker’s mouth went dry.

“Yes,” Iker said, apropos of nothing.

“I’m, uh. Cesc Fabregas,” the kid said. He had a good handshake, and close in he smelled like clean laundry. “I’ve been emailing you?”

“Yes,” Iker said again. He shook his head out a little, awkwardly touched the top button of his shirt and let his hand fall. “You’re Forlan’s intern? What happened to that other kid, Robin?”

“Mm,” Cesc said. He caught his lower lip in his teeth, which were translucent white, a little crooked in front. “He’s here still, it’s just now there are two of us. So if you need help with anything --”

“Nope,” Iker said. “Thanks. No. Not at the moment.”

There was a knock, and Xabi put his head around the door. “Hey, Iker -- oh. Fabregas. How’s it going?”

“Good,” Cesc said. He tilted his head, mouth curving up shyly. “Um. Sorry, Mr. Casillas, Diego wants to see your testimony for the Education committee, if you have it?”

“I’ll email it to him,” Iker said shortly. He retreated behind his desk. “Is that it?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Cesc said. “Nice to meet you. I’m -- looking forward to working with you.”

“Yes,” Iker said for the third time, digging his nails into his leg under the desk. “Yep. Good luck. Looking forward to it.”

“Bye,” Cesc said, and -- oh, God, either Iker was having some kind of innocent-schoolboy-porn hallucination, or he was blushing a little. Xabi watched him go with a stony expression.

“Don’t sleep with him,” he said when the door closed.

“I wasn’t even -- what?” Iker said. “Christ, Xabi, he’s like twelve.”

“It’s a Lewinsky waiting to happen,” Xabi said, fixing Iker with a glare. “He’s not twelve, and he’s got moony eyes and an air of purpose. I’m fucking serious, do not lay a hand on that kid. Don’t let him lay a hand on you, either.”

“I’m not going to,” Iker said sharply: it was as much to himself as anyone else, and he knew it.

 

_Washington Hilton_  
Washington, DC  
September, 2011

Cesc’s ear was in his mouth. His breath was warm and damp on the shallow dip of Iker’s throat. He was laughing, dazed and breathless, and Iker had his hand tangled in that thick dark hair so he could kiss Cesc’s eyelids, his sweat-damp temple, the corner of his smile.

“Oh, man,” Cesc said, his voice a little wispy. “Man.” He nuzzled under Iker’s jaw and bit lazily at the corner of it, raising a cascade of goosebumps down Iker’s chest and side. “I was just -- I was losing it.”

“Christ, I know,” Iker said. He tipped Cesc’s chin up to him and kissed his soft mouth, wrapped his arms around Cesc’s shoulderblades and pressed his palm to the back of Cesc’s neck to get him closer, as close as possible, every inch to every inch. He wondered for an insane moment what would happen if he just never left this room, said _fuck it_ to everything else, barricaded the door and spent the rest of his life with Cesc’s warm loose body twined around him. (And since when had he started thinking like that? Since always, probably, Jesus, he was an idiot.)

“I hate it,” Cesc said. His voice was muffled now in Iker’s shoulder. “I fucking. It’s the worst. I saw you at lunch today, at Old Ebbitt.”

Iker stilled, his hand halfway up Cesc’s hot smooth spine. “I didn’t see you.”

“I went to the bathroom,” Cesc said. There was a laugh in his voice again but now it was sort of desperate and awful. “I mean, for like half an hour. Well, not quite, but -- I couldn’t just sit there. I don’t have a poker face, you know? If I would’ve had to watch you and pretend like, whatever -- I couldn’t’ve. And Pique was there and he knows me.”

“You hid in the bathroom,” Iker repeated. He wanted to laugh, but he didn’t really. “I made you hide in the bathroom?”

"I couldn’t think what else," Cesc said, sheepish. "But now Pique thinks I'm, like, on drugs."

"Pique is on drugs," Iker said, meaninglessly. He kissed the top of Cesc's head and let his head fall back against the pillow, stared up at the ceiling. It didn't bear saying aloud how ridiculous all of this was. The imaginary finance meetings Xabi had Canales put on Iker's calendar, and the second cell phone he had to carry, a shitty Nokia from 2003, registered on Xabi's phone plan, with Cesc's number programmed under the name of a Thai takeout place. It had been pretty funny, for a while.

"How did it go? Down there," Cesc asked.

“Went okay.”

"Andrew Sullivan’s tweeting it. He said you sounded presidential but you talk too fast."

Iker snorted. "He’s still mad at me for that time I shaved my beard."

Cesc rubbed his thumb over Iker’s face, from the corner of his eye down to the hinge of his jaw and along the line of his chin. His lashes shadowed his eyes. “Yeah, well,” he said.

“Don’t tell me you are too.”

“It’s your face,” Cesc said simply, his thumb still resting at the corner of Iker’s mouth. “I like your face whenever.” He craned his head up to glance at the connecting door. “So he’s still in there, huh.”

“He always has to stay.” They could hear the treble murmur of the TV through the wall, turned up too high, which was Xabi’s way of giving them privacy.

Cesc's mouth went all tight and he said, “This wasn’t supposed to be all -- you know. I didn’t mean to make trouble.”

“Of course you did,” Iker said into his temple, his lips dragging against the bones under Cesc’s thin skin. He palmed the tight curve of Cesc’s ass, kneading the muscle a little. “From the minute I met you you did.”

“Shut up,” Cesc said, thumping his sternum. “No. I just liked you is all.”

It had been months, in the statehouse, months of Cesc lingering awkwardly outside his office, or coming in to drop off papers, his dark eyes too obvious and heated. Sometimes he’d have his suit coat off and the sleeves of his shirt pushed up over his elbows, looking up at Iker through his lashes like he didn’t know what he was doing. Grazing his hand against Iker’s when he handed things over, smiling shyly at him across the room, whatever, while Iker pretended not to notice, or not to know what it meant. He hadn’t been able to breathe easy until Cesc’s internship had ended in August.

And then two weeks later he’d walked into his advanced political science seminar -- his first as an adjunct -- to find the kid fucking sitting across the room from him, looking like butter wouldn’t melt.

“It wasn’t even about me,” Iker said, shrugging his arm tighter across the top of Cesc’s back. He could feel Cesc’s heartbeat under the knit bones and the flesh there. “Could’ve been anyone. You had a power thing.”

“For -- fucking, what, adjunct professors,” Cesc said. “For state senators. Jesus. If I had a power thing I could’ve done better.” He scraped his teeth over Iker’s nipple and said into his chest, “Ugh. I suck at this.”

Something behind Iker’s collarbone twinged. He gripped the roots of Cesc’s hair, cupping the back of his skull, and kissed him quiet again. “I love that you suck at it,” he told him, and that was all, because Cesc always knew what he meant.

“Stupid,” Cesc said drowsily into his mouth. “You know. Me too. How long do we--”

“An hour,” Iker said. He glanced at the glowing red numbers of the clock on the nightstand.

“An hour, or an hour left?” Cesc said, clearly already knowing the answer.

“Twenty-one minutes left,” Iker said. He could feel the muscles of Cesc's back starting to tense again, and he dug his thumb into the spot where his neck flowed into his shoulders.

“You wanna -- " Cesc shimmied clumsily against him. “Best twenty-one minutes of your life. I promise.”

Iker laughed low into his hair. “I bet.” Cesc was such a dork sometimes, a complete weirdo.

“Seriously,” Cesc said. “I know things.”

“Yeah, okay,” Iker said. He kissed Cesc lazy and deep, letting himself linger. His mouth tasted animal, slightly bitter, like home. “Just stay still, huh?”

“All right,” Cesc said. He butted his head under Iker’s chin. Iker closed his eyes.

This was always the worst part, when Iker first came back. It was that split second when Xabi saw his body held looser and his eyes content, and then had to watch him set his jaw, gather himself back, close himself off again. He shut the connecting door, his back to Xabi. His fingers rested a little too long on the doorknob.

“So,” Xabi said.

Iker dropped his hand. He said with that familiar tired humor, “We have to stop meeting like this. People will talk.”

“Your hair’s damp,” Xabi said. “What have I told you a million fucking times?” Sympathy was usually counterproductive.

Iker turned and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I wore a shower cap. It’s barely -- no one will notice.”

“And your _suit_ ,” Xabi said, pained. “What did you do, tap-dance on it?”

He got up from the bed and Iker put his chin up obediently, a kid waiting to be adjusted. Xabi straightened his collar, smoothed out his coat. The knot of Iker’s tie was, seriously, a fucking disgrace. He undid it and started again.

“Very good, Jeeves,” Iker said. Xabi flicked his lapel, then stepped back to survey his handiwork. Iker looked put together, enough. There was at least a little more ease in his shoulders than there had been. It’d have to be fine.

For the first time Iker noticed the TV going. His brow creased. “What the hell is this?”

Xabi followed his gaze. “I don’t know. I was working, I just left it on.” On the screen a tearful, haggard woman was being strapped into a wedding dress. The closed captioning said _I’m so so happy,_ which seemed like it had to be a mistake. He groped for the remote, clicked the TV off. “All right?”

Iker exhaled. “It’s leaving him there. He just --” He cut himself off, jerking his head sharply sideways. “I hate it. I hate it.”

Xabi didn’t say anything. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and watched Iker’s face. It had been a mistake, letting them meet here. It made the whole thing even more sad and tawdry than usual. In the future he’d take that into consideration.

(That had been what Cesc wanted to ask him about, after the EPL meeting. _The keycard you left me -- it’s for the Hilton? Like, the same one where --_

 _Yes_ , Xabi had said curtly, scanning the street for a taxi and raising his arm.

Cesc had said, _Is it okay if -- I just wanna watch his speech, like just the beginning even,_ and his face had been nervous and defiant. _I’ll wear a suit. I could stand in the back--_

A cab had pulled up to the curbside then. Xabi had jerked the door open, halfway in already, just desperate to get away. _I don’t think it’s a good idea,_ he’d said, too short. He’d caught the flash of furious sadness in Fabregas’s eyes, but what was he supposed to do? They’d made the call to handle it this way.

He rested his hand briefly on Fabregas’s sleeve, as if he could comfort him -- as if he had any right to comfort anybody. _Check in at seven forty-five, under Taylor_ , he said, and Fabregas had nodded, a curt little snap of his chin, and then Xabi had slammed the cab door and gotten the hell away.)

“I’m good,” Iker told him. “We can go back down.”

Xabi nodded. He brushed off the pillow he’d been lying on, scanned the room quickly for any evidence they’d been there: there was nothing. “We go upstairs first,” he told Iker. They’d do it the same way they had before.

When they opened the stairwell door on the eighth floor, Jose Mourinho was lurking in the hall like a fucking vampire.

“What,” Xabi said, twitching back involuntarily.

“Hello, Xabier,” Mourinho said. His eyes flicked briefly over them, taking in Iker’s barely-damp hair, the new crispness of his tie, Xabi’s trousers slightly rumpled from sitting on the bed. “Casillas. What a surprising...surprise.”

“We had to make a call,” Iker said blankly.

“Ah,” Mourinho said.

“What are you doing up here?” Xabi demanded.

“You know,” Mourinho said serenely, waving a hand as if that answered the question. He was talking at a perfectly normal volume, Xabi knew rationally that he had to be, but Christ, it really fucking sounded like he was shouting. “I was about to head back downstairs. Care to walk with me?” A few rooms down from them, a door opened and someone peered out. Xabi wanted to strangle something.

“Are you _trying_ to sink my campaign?” Xabi hissed.

“I only suggested we share an elevator,” Mourinho said. “Don’t you think you’re being a little extreme? Not to mention paranoid.” He extracted a stick of gum from his coat pocket, offered it in turn to Iker and Xabi, and when it was rejected shrugged and unwrapped it fastidiously.

There wasn’t anything else to do, so they started for the elevators. A few steps behind them Iker already had his head down, automatically.

“I told you to back off for ten minutes,” Xabi said, as quietly as he could. “I asked you nicely.”

Mourinho wrinkled one side of his mouth, considering. “I’m not sure that’s what I got out of our conversation.”

“For fuck’s sake, José,” Xabi said. The elevator opened and he punched the Lobby button so hard he nearly jammed his thumb. “If you’re think you can force me to come back to PV by ruining Iker’s chances in this idiotic way, go fuck yourself. I’ll work for Legal Aid. I’ll defend the goddamn manatees.” Iker put a warning hand on his arm and Xabi tried to count backwards from ten only what the _hell_ came after eight.

“You’re under a lot of stress,” Mourinho said sympathetically, patting his arm. “I understand.”

“You’re _putting_ me under it!” Xabi said. It came out a strangled yelp.

The doors dinged and slid open again, and he found himself staring into the eyes of that Massey girl, Shane or whatever it was, TPM’s new reporter -- and he was just standing there, with Jose Mourinho’s Godfather-like hand on his shoulder, and Iker skulking behind them like a fucking convict.

“Evening,” Mourinho said, giving her a laser-focus smile that radiated almost tangible charm, and breezed right by. Xabi followed him, nodding a curt hello.

“I really don’t understand why you’re so angry,” Mourinho said as they made their way back to the ballroom.

“You are making an effort to create suspiciousness out of literally nothing,” Xabi bit out. “I have to assume you’re doing it on purpose, for _fun_.”

Iker said, low in his ear, “This is not worth getting into a fight about.”

“Do I look like I’m getting in a fight?” Xabi said belligerently, and bit his lip as he caught his own tone.

“I’m sorry, this is clearly a bad time,” Mourinho said, turning that hypnotic smile on both of them. “We’ll talk when you’re feeling more rested.” He patted Xabi on the shoulder, clasped Iker’s hand, and sauntered off. Across the room, Xabi noticed, Massey was watching him go, gaze narrow as a hawk’s. She had her phone out and was typing something furiously.

“She’s sharp,” Iker muttered over his shoulder. “Talking Points Memo, right?

“Yes,” Xabi said grimly. “I hate her already.”

“Xabi,” Iker said suddenly.

“What.”

“It’s gonna be fine,” Iker said.

Xabi stared at him. He looked ridiculously earnest, his eyes all warm and sad in that way they always were after he’d been with Cesc, like a fucking Disney prince. As if he had any idea! As if he had any fucking clue how badly this could end.

“Of course it is,” he said finally. He forced a smile. “Come on. We should find Raul before you go.”

 

The drive back had been mercifully uneventful. He’d tried to insist on driving, under the pretense that she was too drunk (“For God’s sake, Stevie, it was half a martini four hours ago,”) which had so irritated Alex that she’d driven like a saint just to nettle him.

“See?” she said loftily as they pulled smoothly up in front of Stevie’s building. “I can’t imagine what you were so worried about.”

“Congratulations,” Stevie said, unclicking his seatbelt. “You drove like someone who wants to live. This day’ll go down in history.”

Alex made a sharp, scoffing noise. Strands of her hair were coming loose from her regal pouf; he’d always loved her in these moments, when the person under the makeup began to reappear.

(That had been part of the problem. “Stevie, I’m the person _in_ the makeup, too,” Alex had said once, tiredly, “you can’t just pick the side of me you like better and decide that’s the real one.” And he’d understood that, in theory, but he hadn’t really: not well enough.)

He leaned across the gearshift and brushed his lips across hers, gently at first and then more insistently. She let him, but that was all.

“Come up for a nightcap?” he suggested, and kissed the delicate heated spot on her neck that always did it for her, pressed his tongue softly against her perfumed skin.

But Alex pushed him back, not hard. She pressed her lips together in a rueful little wince. “Not tonight, Stevie.”

He pulled away, surprised. “Did I do something?”

“No, silly ass,” Alex said. She pinched his cheek fondly. “Nothing like that. It’s just -- Aitor and me. We’ve got a bit serious.”

“Oh,” Stevie said, blinking. He leaned back into his own chair and turned forward again, taking it in. “Huh.”

“It can’t be such a surprise really,” Alex said gently. “We couldn’t go on like this forever, could we?”

“I sort of thought we could,” Stevie admitted, which -- all right, now that he’d said it aloud it was patently ridiculous. He let out a little snort of embarrassed laughter and dug the heel of his hand into one eye.

After a moment Alex said, “I think you should get back out there, Stevie. I really do.”

“Come on, Al,” Stevie said with mild disgust, “don’t, urgh. ‘Get back out there?’”

“Well, I do,” Alex said, defensively. “I mean, I’m not telling you to go off and get yourself hitched. I’m only saying it’s been a bit of a crutch, this, hasn’t it? Why would you make an effort when you can count on your ex-wife for a bit of a pity shag every now and again?”

“A _pity shag?_ ” Stevie echoed, indignant.

“You know what I mean.”

“I certainly don’t,” Stevie said.

She patted his thigh. “All I mean is, we’re a bit like -- I don’t know, junk food or something, you and me. Cheap, easy to get at, tasty enough, and you don’t have to dress up for it. And then all of a sudden you realize you’re all bloated and stuck and no one else wants to have sex with you anymore.”

“What I’m getting out of this is, One, that you think I’m cheap and, Two, you’ve only gone on sleeping with me because you felt bad,” Stevie said. “Is this your version of a pep talk? Really?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Alex said. She leaned into him and kissed his cheek. Her mouth was soft and a little waxy. “I’ll see you tomorrow for pick-up.” She tugged his tie loose, scrubbed impeccably manicured fingers through his hair, and smiled that sideways smile he’d never seen her give anyone but him. “There,” she said. “Feel better?”

“A bit,” Stevie said, smoothing his hair down self-consciously.

“That’s a start, anyway,” Alex said.

Upstairs, in his apartment, he hung his jacket over his desk chair, undid his tie, poured himself a scotch. He sat on the edge of the bed, drinking it meditatively. Outside there were distant sirens. Methodically he bent over to untie his shoes; they were new and a little more pointed than he’d usually have gone for, and he winced slightly at the cramp, rubbing the sole of his foot against the carpet. Then he lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling fan.

He wanted, suddenly, to talk to Xabi.

It wasn’t that the urge was new. He’d spent a lot of time over the last couple of years wanting to say one thing or another to Alonso, mostly variations on “Get fucked.” But not to _talk_ to him.

Out of nowhere he remembered, with almost dizzying vividness, a moment on the campaign: nothing special, some Wednesday night in July. They’d been in the office going over Rafa’s latest ad numbers. Stevie had been idly tossing a baseball in the air and catching it, watching Xabi, who was bent over the printouts. The night was sweltering, oppressive, and the A/C was broken, so they had the windows open. Stevie was down to his undershirt. Xabi’s button-down was undone, his t-shirt tucked neatly beneath.

“The response is pretty good, but we’re preaching to the choir,” Xabi had said. His voice was muffled because he was chewing absently on his pencil. “Latinos. Men eighteen to twenty-five. Women under forty. We need buys in -- _NCIS_ , maybe. _King of Queens_.”

“The Spice Channel,” Stevie suggested.

“I feel like you’re not taking this seriously right now,” Xabi complained.

“I’ll take you seriously when you stop being insane,” Stevie said. He caught the baseball, lofted it in the air again. “How are you proposing we fund buys like that at New York broadcasting rates? Hyypia was wrangling with the D-Trip all morning: nil. We don’t get a budget increase until we can show them we stand a chance of winning.”

"We _don't_ stand a shot at winning if everyone thinks of 2005 when they get in the booth," Xabi said. “That’s why I’m saying, the risk --”

"I know what you’re saying,” Stevie said. “It’s a lovely little catch-22. And you don’t have to convince me, you know; talk about preaching to the choir. No, we’re just going to have to fire someone and see if we can get fifteen seconds during a _CSI_ spinoff for the price of their salary. Do you think that Chinese place is still delivering?”

Xabi took the pencil out of his mouth and held it like a cigarette between his slender fingers. “You know how many people reference that book without ever reading it?”

“What?” Stevie said, bouncing the ball off the floor.

“ _Catch-22_ ,” Xabi clarified. He spun the pencil over his knuckles.

“That was a book?”

Stevie easily ducked the pencil chucked at him, but missed the baseball in the process. It deflected off his shoulder, rolled under his desk. "Now look what you've done," he said mildly, rubbing the sore spot.

“Oh, you’re fine,” Xabi said. He retrieved his pencil and poked Stevie’s shoulder with the eraser. Stevie let out an exaggerated yelp of pain. “I meant to say earlier, I don’t like that new script proposal you sent.”

“You have a problem with my puns?” Stevie leaned forward and groped around under the desk until his fingers touched the stitches edging the baseball. He rolled it back and trapped it under his foot.

“First of all, yes,” Xabi said. He had the pencil back in his mouth again. “Many many problems. But it’s not the lines, it’s the tone.”

“We’re going to have to go negative eventually,” Stevie said. “I’m just saying let’s do it now, before we look desperate. Seriously, I’m starved. Lo mein?”

Xabi let out a sigh that communicated both impossible suffering and infinite patience. He rested his head on his open hand, smooshing up one side of his face, and cocked an eyebrow at Stevie.

Stevie chucked the baseball at him. Xabi caught it automatically, without even flinching, and winged it back into Stevie’s hand. An unwilling smile tugged at his half-hidden mouth.

“Reflexes like a jungle cat,” Stevie said, grinning back.

“Call the place,” Xabi said. “Wonton soup, and those dumplings. Not the big doughballs; the little spicy ones that I like. And then we’re going over the budget until we can eke out 30 seconds during _Three and a Half Men_ in Middlesex County.”

“I’m telling you, we should just fire someone,” Stevie said, fishing for his phone. “I say Keane. He fidgets.”

“You know what, sure. Whatever you say. Fire everyone.” Xabi yawned hugely. “Think of the savings.”

“Just you and me then,” Stevie said.

“Anfield Consulting Partners, Inc.” Xabi said into his palm. “That’s why we’re doing this, right? Because sometimes I forget.”

“That, and for America,” Stevie said. “Chin up, sunshine.” He pushed his fingers briefly into the soft-spiked whorl of hair at the back of Xabi’s skull and scrolled through his contacts for the delivery place. He’d have to call Alex after, tell her he’d be home even later than usual. Although probably she would have just assumed.

“The little Szechuan dumplings, make sure they know,” Xabi said. “Do we have Sam Adams in the fridge? I’m not drinking that vile swill of Riise’s,” and in the end there was only a torn-up case of Bud Light, but Xabi hadn’t complained.

 _Anfield Consulting._ Now, on his bed in Capitol Hill, Stevie felt a curious pang remembering how carefully they'd planned it out. Anfield was supposed to be the whole point, the eventual endgame. A long-term thing. They’d taken on Benitez’s kamikaze mission for the resume and the connections, that was all, to see how they could improve on the last time. It was supposed to be step one of ten. They couldn’t have known how fucking good they’d be at it. They couldn’t’ve known that Benitez for Congress would be steps one through nine; that step ten would be the real bitch.

Stevie meant to get up, take his trousers off at least, but he found he was almost too tired to move. It had been a clusterfuck of a day, and he was comfortable enough. He’d just close his eyes for five minutes. Five minutes, then he’d get up and brush his teeth and everything.

He let his eyes drift shut, and then he was out.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

_Campaign Headquarters, Benitez for Congress  
Woodbridge, N.J.  
Late October, 2009_

“Mikey,” Stevie said. He dug the pads of his fingers into his forehead. “Mike, mate, you can’t be serious.” Across the room Xabi watched him, eyebrows drawn together over the top of his newspaper.

“I’m really sorry, man,” Owen said, but he didn’t sound fucking sorry. “If it were up to me, that’d be one thing, but it’s my people. I mean, in this economy, it’s just not the time to skip work for politics. And it’s not like they’re backing Seabiscuit here. I mean shit, Steve, you know I support you one hundred percent on a personal level, but let’s be honest, your guy’s like the second coming of Walter Mondale.”

“Are you not reading the numbers?” He tried to keep his voice level, but fury was rising in the back of his throat. “Jesus Christ, what planet are you on where Mondale ever polled at forty percent?”

“Well,” Owen said, “obviously things are rosy on your internals, but I’m looking at Gallup --”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t suggest there’s something wrong with my polling methods,” Stevie said, through his teeth. “Gallup has us at thirty-two plus-minus four. I’ve got forty plus-minus three. And have you forgotten the primaries? I mean, Gallup was insisting we were twelve points down until five minutes before CNN called it for us.” 

“Uh huh,” Owen said.

“Mike,” Stevie said. He closed his eyes for a second. “You can’t do this to me. You cannot do this to me three weeks before GOTV. I’ve been counting on the SEIU for six bodies per ward!”

Owen said, “Okay, that’s valid, but how about we don’t get worked up, Steve,” and Stevie went blind and deaf with rage for a moment, coming back to hear the voice on the other end of the phone saying, “--and listen, I really look forward to working with you in the future, okay?” Stevie realized he’d crumpled a donor list to rags in his fist. Across the room Xabi folded his paper.

“Somehow I don’t think that’s gonna _happen_ ,” Stevie said.

Xabi put the paper on the ground and stood. He held out his hand. _Give me the phone,_ he mouthed.

“Steve, I get why you’re upset, I really do,” Owen drawled. “But--” and Stevie didn’t hear what came next. There was a swarming buzz in his ears.

“Give me the phone,” Xabi said quietly, slicing through the static. When Stevie didn’t move Xabi wrenched it out of his hand. “Michael? Hi, yes, it’s Xabi Alonso. Yeah, sorry, I just got on the line, I didn’t want to interrupt. Can you say again, what exactly is--”

Stevie shoved out of his chair and grabbed his old Louisville Slugger from where it leaned in the corner. As he slammed the office door, the cheerful meaningless talk of the staff and volunteers in the front room cut off like someone had pulled a switch: their wide eyes followed him out.

Outside it was cold and colorless. Dry brown leaves skittered in circles around his feet. He rounded the corner of the building. Then he slammed the bat into the wall. It was instinctive; he whipped his arms around full-force, like he was smashing a long ball into the bleachers at FASU. His muscles jarred with the impact.

It shocked him and at the same time it awoke something in his chest, a dark elated roar. He drew back and swung again, even harder, the handle slamming into his palms with bruising force. Again. A chip of mortar nicked the side of his cheek. He felt, rather than heard, the wordless yell of frustration tear out of his throat.

Then suddenly a hand spun him around by the shoulder, slamming him back against the bricks. Instinctively he swung up again, but Xabi stopped the bat in one hand and twisted it away, dropped it to the ground. Stevie’s arm lashed out; Xabi caught his wrist, pinning it to the wall. His other hand pressed flat against Stevie’s chest, fingers spread across his sternum.

“Okay,” he said. “Enough.”

“Get off me,” Stevie spat, hitting at Xabi’s shoulder with his free hand, trying to twist and heave out of Xabi’s grip, arching his spine, “motherfucker, get the fuck off!” but Xabi was fucking strong, and he shoved Stevie back hard. Stevie’s shoulderblades hit the wall, rattling him. His teeth closed painfully hard on the side of his lip. 

Xabi held him there, full length against the side of the building, his knee sharp in Stevie’s thigh and his fingers bruising Stevie’s chest and wrist. His face was inches away. Stevie heard his own breath rasping in his ears. The dull thudding fury still thundered in his head.

He tried to jerk free again, and this time Xabi grabbed his jaw, forcing Stevie to look at him. His fingers were steely. The move left Stevie’s arms free: but his fists only rose for an instant, weakly, automatically, and then fell again against the wall.

“I need you to get it together now,” Xabi said. His eyes were clear and steady.

For a moment neither of them moved.

It occurred to Stevie that he was freezing. His shirt was too thin for this wind. He could feel the bricks rubbing roughly against the skin of his shoulders and back, and through his chest the lopsided collision of his heartbeat and Xabi’s. The wild rhythm of his own breathing.

“Okay?” Xabi said. Something flickered in the depths of his eyes, a tiny unsteadiness.

Stevie took in air. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Xabi let him go and pulled back, his hand going mechanically to his tie to straighten it. Stevie watched him, letting his breath come slowly, letting the normal street sounds fade back in. Xabi knelt to pick up the bat, swinging it loosely from one hand. Terrible grip. Baseball had never been his thing. He wasn’t wearing a coat either.

“The volunteers think you went off to kill somebody,” he said.

“I’m tempted,” Stevie said. “I can’t believe, I can’t _believe_ him--”

“Hey,” Xabi said. He touched Stevie again, palm hesitant and gentle now against the ridge of his breastbone. “We lost SEIU. Now we have to find more people to canvass. That’s all.” He shrugged. Then he looked down at his hand, a frown creasing his forehead. His fingertips were stained red, Stevie noticed, and wondered why. 

Xabi looked back up at him, breathed out sharply. “Steven. You’re--” He reached out and pressed his knuckles cautiously to the side of Stevie’s mouth. They came away glistening. 

Stevie hadn’t realized that the taste on his tongue was blood until Xabi touched him; now the salty, metallic warmth and the painful throb of his lip made sense together. He touched his own mouth, examined his red-streaked hand. He felt slightly bewildered.

“Bit my lip,” he said gruffly. His voice was a little lispy, like he’d been to the dentist.

“People are going to think I beat you up,” Xabi said. He was unrolling one sleeve, pulling the loose cuff over his hand. “Hold still.” The starched cotton was scratchy on Stevie’s stinging mouth.

“You did knock my head against the wall,” Steve pointed out, and winced as Xabi moved his cuff. “Ah. Hurts.”

Xabi withdrew his arm and bit the cloth, sucking it a little way into his mouth to wet it. He reached toward Stevie’s mouth again but Stevie dodged him, horrified. “Fuck off with that!”

“Don’t be a baby,” Xabi said. He took the side of Stevie’s face firmly in one hand and pressed his dampened cuff to the bleeding place, ignoring Stevie’s protesting noise. It didn’t hurt this time, though.

“Apparently saliva has antiseptic properties,” Xabi said. “Look up. No, I mean put your chin -- yes, like that. You’ve never heard ‘lick one’s wounds?’”

“But not ‘lick someone else’s,’” Stevie mumbled. “My mum used to do this. I thought it was gross then, too.”

“I have Neosporin in the office. But you’re not going back in front of our volunteers looking like we’ve been involved in fisticuffs,” Xabi said. “They’re alarmed enough.”

“‘Fisticuffs’,” Stevie repeated. The sudden wave of fondness broke a laugh out of him. He pushed Xabi’s interfering hand aside, not hard. “Seriously?”

“I am what I am,” Xabi said, with absurd dignity given the circumstances. He glanced down at his wrist, his nose wrinkling at the splotches of blood and saliva on his hand, his cuff. Fastidiously he rolled his sleeve back over his elbow. A rust-colored stain still trickled over the skin between his thumb and fingers, smeared down the back of his wrist.

“You don’t think they’ll notice your hand?” Stevie said. “And the dry-cleaner’s gonna ask questions. Out, out, damn spot--”

“I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor, anyway,” Xabi said. His eyes flickered over Stevie’s face. “All right, you’re clean enough. What now?”

Stevie thought for a little while. Then he said, “The SEIU contact list. We’ve got their home numbers, haven’t we? Not just the liasons -- not Owen -- but the guys who were gonna knock for us.”

“We have,” Xabi said. His eyes were soft. “Want to put out a call for volunteers?”

“How’s your cold-calling?” 

“Rusty but unimpeachable,” Xabi said. 

“They’re mostly white, the union guys,” Stevie warned. “I mean, ‘Xabier Alonso,’ it sounds pretty--”

“I used to tell them my name was Toby,” Xabi said. He smiled. “‘Howdy, neighbors, how do y’all like having your concerns with management heard and valued by your elected representative?’”

“It’s Jersey, you dumbass, not the O-K Corral,” Stevie said. For some reason he touched Xabi’s tie, pushed it slightly askew. His fingers left a dull copper print on Xabi’s white shirt, barely visible unless you knew where to look.

“I’m okay now,” he told Xabi.

“I know you are,” Xabi said. He raised his hand as if he would’ve touched Stevie’s face again, but instead he closed his fingers awkwardly, dropped his arm back to his side. “Come on. Come back inside, we’ve got calls to make,” and Stevie, shivering now in his thin shirt, let himself be led.

The thing with this client was that Stevie had actually no idea what in the hell he was talking about, ever. Sorghum, that much he could catch. Agriculture was really not his thing, though. They’d’ve been much better off giving this account to Bhamra, but she’d been too busy; why Stevie had said yes, he couldn’t now remember. Variety, probably. Fucking...branching out. Idiotic. He pushed the back of his hand into his eye, hard enough that red splotches floated for a second in front of him, and tried to read Benayoun’s email again.

> _...Our main concern here is the percentage of our subsidy that goes to advance deficiency -- esp. when contrasted w/ our counter-cyclical payments -- I think we could make a credible case that we’re not receiving the necessary funds compared to, say, soybean producers..._

_Dear Yossi, it’s fucking_ sorghum, he would have liked to reply. _You get insane amounts of money already. 300 million dollars, isn’t it? Six billion from the government since 1995? Why don’t you stop whining and be glad you’ve got a job? Best, S. Gerrard._

 _Stop whining._ Christ, he might just as well be talking to himself. He ought to be grateful for this job. He _was_ grateful. It was just that sometimes it was hard to remember why. The girls’ tuition, of course, and the nice suits, and Alex’s -- surprisingly reasonable -- alimony. But then there were accounts like this and all of a sudden he was fighting the urge to just run, through the wall if necessary, leaving an outline of his body in the plaster like a cartoon character.

He’d been miserable on the campaign, of course he had. He’d been miserable -- stressed, ill-nourished, frustrated by forces beyond his control -- most of the time, probably. It was just that, as miserable as he’d been, he’d never wanted to be anywhere else.

Pepe put his head into the office without knocking. “Hey man, you busy?”

“What if I said yes?” Stevie said. 

“I’d ask how come I can see your Text Twist game reflected in the window,” Pepe said, pointing at the view behind Stevie. Stevie flinched.

“It’s the sorghum guys,” he said. “They’re killing me. I seriously -- listen to this. ‘Target price minus average market price, except not more than the difference between the target price and the sum of the national loan rate and the direct payment rate’ --”

“Stop,” Pepe said, giving him a baleful look. “Stop it. I’m gonna punch you.”

“I hate doing this,” Stevie admitted.

“That’s great, actually, because I have this badass idea,” Pepe said. He spun Stevie’s extra chair around and flopped into it. “Come take the Casillas job with me. Fernando doesn’t really want it and I’m bored of listening to him whine about how badly he needs a prestige account. Give him grain subsidies. You don’t need the payout, so it’s a win-win--”

“Pepe,” Stevie said. “For God’s sake. Because I’m really just longing to work with Xabi Alonso every fucking day--”

Pepe threw his hands up in exasperation. “Jesus, Stephanie, eventually you’re going to have to learn to play nice with the other little girls.” Stevie barely dodged the rubber band, zipped forcefully at his forehead. “What is wrong with you? I thought you guys were trying to be civil.”

“We are trying to be civil,” Stevie attempted. “I mean, we’ve been trying for about fourteen hours. I just would prefer not to get all entangled--”

“Entangled!” Pepe repeated, incredulous. “What the fuck do you think this account management is going to involve? A goddamn threesome commitment ceremony? You stupid dick, you’re choosing to waste your days in misery and strand me with Fernando’s mopey ass. You could just bestow the Fiber Brigade on him and come do something I happen to know you actually enjoy. And then we can all get loaded and watch action movies after work! It’ll be like college!”

“I’m busy now,” Stevie said, hunching over his keyboard. “Fuck off.”

“Sure. I hope you have fun with, fucking, crop acreage bases and production flexibility,” Pepe said. “Dumbass. I’m giving you twenty-four hours. Don’t come crawling to me after that when you’re suicidal with boredom.” He flicked another rubber band, which grazed Stevie’s ear, and grabbed Stevie’s signed Wade Boggs ball ( _Steve-O -- Keep Working Hard! -- Wade Boggs_ ) off its stand. “I’m taking this hostage,” he said. 

That was over the line. “I will destroy you,” Stevie said, unsmiling. “You know I’m not kidding. Paws off.”

“You have anger issues,” Pepe said, but he put it back.

“You have touching my shit issues,” Stevie said. “Seriously, please go away.”

“This isn’t over,” Pepe warned him. 

“Yes it is,” Stevie said, because maybe if he wished hard enough it would become true.

TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT: HELLO FAIRFIELD! FAC-TV 19 PUBLIC ACCESS, 2/25/10. INTERVIEW WITH STATE SEN. I. CASILLAS.

> \--BEGIN TRANSCRIPT--
>
>> MEGHAN STAPLETON: Hello, Fairfield! I’m here today with State Senator Iker Casillas, who is considering a run for the United States Senate. Exciting! Good morning, Senator.
>> 
>> IKER CASILLAS: Mm-hm.
>> 
>> UNIDENTIFIED MALE VOICE, OFF-CAMERA: [inaudible murmuring]
>> 
>> CASILLAS: Yes. Thanks for having me.
>> 
>> STAPLETON: Now, Senator, you were first elected to the city council at the age of nineteen, while you were a student at Fairfield State.
>> 
>> CASILLAS: Uh-huh.
>> 
>> STAPLETON: That’s very young! Did you feel like you missed out on having a childhood?
>> 
>> CASILLAS: [coughing] No.
>> 
>> STAPLETON: No?
>> 
>> CASILLAS: [silence]
>> 
>> STAPLETON: Next question. Our police bureau here in Fairfield City are very concerned about drugs. Apparently one drug which is popular among young people is bath salts, which can be snorted recreationally. Senator Casillas, what would be your plan for responding to the bath salt crisis?
>> 
>> CASILLAS: [inaudible] ...Come on.
>> 
>> STAPLETON: Excuse me?
>> 
>> CASILLAS: That’s not a useful question.
>> 
>> STAPLETON: I’m sorry, I don’t...
>> 
>> CASILLAS: I’m saying, in the, uh, the pantheon of things we should be concerned about as a state, as a society, I just don’t think that huffing bath salts, I don’t think it rates. 
>> 
>> STAPLETON: Huh.
>> 
>> CASILLAS: It’s not something I care about. At all.
>> 
>> STAPLETON: Would you be concerned if your own child was snorting bath salts?
>> 
>> CASILLAS: [silence]
>> 
>> STAPLETON: Would you?
>> 
>> CASILLAS: I think I would be more concerned about the fact that I suddenly had a child.
>> 
>> STAPLETON: But if you did, would you or would you not --
>> 
>> CASILLAS: Fine. Sure. I would take my imaginary child’s imaginary bath salts away and imaginary ground him. Or her. 
>> 
>> UNIDENTIFIED MALE VOICE, OFF-CAMERA: [inaudible]
>> 
>> CASILLAS: What? What did I say?
>> 
>> STAPLETON: So if you were to be elected Senator for Fairfield, you would -- 
>> 
>> CASILLAS: Continue to not care about bath salts. 
>> 
>> UNIDENTIFIED MALE VOICE, OFF-CAMERA: [inaudible] ...education bill.
>> 
>> STAPLETON: Okay, sure. Senator Casillas, you recently introduced a bill in the State Legislature regarding funding for mobile education centers, intended to benefit the children of migrant workers. 
>> 
>> CASILLAS: Yes.
>> 
>> STAPLETON: Why do you think people, and also the children of people, want to have an education?
>> 
>> CASILLAS: What?
>> 
>> STAPLETON: Why is education important for you as a candidate, and to America?
>> 
>> CASILLAS: [inaudible] good use of anybody’s time.
>> 
>> STAPLETON: How would you sum up your approach to education, in a single sentence?
>> 
>> CASILLAS: I believe the children are our future. Is our time up? Great. 
>> 
>> UNIDENTIFIED MALE VOICE, OFF-CAMERA: [censored]
> 
> \--END TRANSCRIPT--

_OCHO & Associates  
Washington, DC  
Late February, 2010_

“I don’t need an image consultant,” Iker said, sulkily, for about the twelfth time.

“I don’t even have the vocabulary to explain how badly you do,” Xabi said. 

“Okay, that interview wasn’t the best,” Iker admitted. “But it wasn’t my fault. If she hadn’t asked such idiotic questions--”

“Fun fact,” Xabi said. “You are going to shut up and do media training because this isn’t up for discussion.”

“You don’t know this Ronaldo guy. He could be terrible.”

“Chad’s people are all good,” Xabi said. He held the suite door solicitously for Iker and followed him inside. “Hi. We’ve got a meeting with Mr. Ochocinco? His two o’clock. We’re a little early, so--”

“Alonso, Alonso, Alonso,” someone said, and then Chad Ochocinco was looming over them, grinning in a way that was sort of terrifying. “ _Alonso._ ”

Xabi went for the handshake, but Ochocinco said pityingly, “Come on, son,” and enveloped him in a huge, tender embrace. When Xabi emerged he was slightly red-faced, his hair sticking up sideways. 

“Good to see you too,” he said, and coughed.

“It’s always good to see me, man, I’m the light of your world,” Ochocinco said. He turned to Iker, sticking out one huge hand. “You must be the candidate.” His grip was like a garbage compactor. Iker steeled himself to keep from wincing, feeling his eyes water. Ochocinco looked him up and down, and then turned to Xabi and said, “Who dressed this dude? A gang of, like, feral sixth graders?”

“I know,” Xabi said grimly. “He’s always been like this. I told you, it’s going to be a project.”

“I’m right here,” Iker protested.

“It’s all love, baby,” Ochocinco said, patting his shoulder. “Don’t get het up.”

“It’s not a secret that I think you’re a sartorial tragedy,” Xabi said. To Ochocinco, he said, “Did you watch his first interview? So you see the problem.”

“Oof. Yes.” Ochocinco shook his head and whistled through his teeth, and said to Iker, “Man, you were hilarious though. Just sitting there glaring! It’s weird because you dress like Zack Morris but you got this Clint Eastwood-ass scowl on you, I love it. Come on to the back with me. Cristiano is gonna be all over you. You’ll love this guy, Alonso. I mean, no, you’ll hate him. But after that you’ll love him. That’s how it goes with Cris.”

Iker, personally, hated Cristiano Ronaldo from the minute the office door opened. He was slick and tan and groomed to within an inch of his life, a diamond stud winking in one ear. When he saw Iker he raised one (ugh, _tweezed?_ ) eyebrow, and said, “Bath salts, huh?”

“I told you!” Ochocinco said, plainly delighted. 

Xabi looked at Ronaldo. “So can you fix him?”

“Hey!” Iker said.

“Can I fix him,” Ronaldo said scornfully. “I’m sorry, I realize we just met, but do you know who I am?”

Ochocinco said proudly, “Man, this guy got Vinnie Jones a Pampers sponsorship after he beat up three dudes in a bar; he can definitely teach your boy here to stop frowning on TV. Some _Princess Diaries_ level shit.”

Ronaldo winked shamelessly at Iker. “That’s right,” he said. “Give me three weeks and I’ll have you walking down the staircase in a prom dress. Wait til you see the looks on those popular boys’ faces.”

“He’s giving you a metaphor though,” Ochocinco explained.

“Can you make him stop antagonizing interviewers?” Xabi asked. “Because that’s my main concern. I want him to be Miss Congeniality and all anyone’s getting is Iker the Grouch.”

“Step one is we’re going to get him a grown-up haircut,” Cristiano said, surveying Iker with undisguised distaste. “Then we can move on to the advanced stuff.”

“I don’t like you,” Iker informed Cristiano.

“I don’t care,” Cristiano assured him. “This is going to be _fun_.”

_Casillas 2011 Headquarters  
Washington, DC  
Friday, September 16th, 2011_

“Oh my god,” Cris said. He couldn’t stop grinning maniacally. “Oh my _god_.”

“Oh dear,” Kaka said, peering over his shoulder.

“You have to put it in his clippings binder,” Cris said. He clutched at Kaka’s tie. “You have to. Please. It’ll be amazing. _Oh my god._ ”

“Cris,” Kaka said reproachfully, disentangling himself. “I’m not putting this in Xabi’s clippings. If it’s not true he doesn’t need to see anything this ridiculous, and if it is--”

“If it _is_? Come on, Ricky, there is no way in hell this is true,” Cris said. “‘Post-coital,’ that’s the giveaway. Xabi couldn’t look post-coital if he was an extra in _Eyes Wide Shut_. You can’t ruffle the guy. He’s unruffleable.”

“But just in case,” Kaka said. “I mean, there’s always the chance, and if -- I mean, if they love each other--”

“Please,” Cris scoffed. “I mean, okay, I can see them sleeping together. Once. But it’d only be Xabi tricking Iker into getting naked so he could burn his whole wardrobe. And he’s still got those Dockers of his, so that can’t have happened.”

He paused for a moment to imagine Xabi and Iker fucking. It was pretty hot, albeit super uptight and sort of grimly businesslike, with more stubble burn than Cris was personally into. Also, he had the feeling Xabi, whether top or bottom, was incredibly bossy.

“You’re picturing them making love right now, aren’t you,” Kaka said, resigned.

“I wouldn’t use the term ‘making love,’” Cris said with relish. “Look, you have to include it. Otherwise he _will_ find out and he’ll wanna know how come we weren’t the first to tell him.”

“Can we move on?” Kaka said. “I’ll tell him about it, but I’m not printing it out. How’s that.” He went back to his chair and started to sort through the stacks of paper he’d already printed. Cris sighed and returned to his Google Alerts. There was one he knew he shouldn’t click through, but he did anyway.

“Answer _Slate_ ’s question,” he said, scanning it quickly. “‘Is Cristiano Ronaldo the Most Hateable Whiner In Politics?’ Or what?”

Kaka, without looking up, opened and shut his fingers, like a duck quacking. Their old, comforting joke. “Yap, yap,” he said. “Haters are going to what?”

“To hell,” Cris said, grudgingly returning the gesture. _Quack quack_.

“To hate,” Kaka said. “Haters are going to hate. Turn the other cheek.”

“W.W.K.D.,” Cris said. “What would Kaka do.”

“Well, let’s be honest: Kaka would probably ask Jesus for patience, and then his faith in this cult superstition of his would actually make him feel better,” Kaka said. He smiled a little sadly. “So that’s not a ton of help to you.”

“None,” Cris said. “But thanks.”

“How about W.W.C.R.D.?” Kaka suggested. “Because I’m pretty sure he would just keep doing his job while remaining about a hundred times faster, smarter, and more talented than anyone who writes for _Slate._ Except Dahlia Lithwick,” he added as an afterthought. “That lady’s got sense.”

“I usually don’t react well to people who are this nice to me,” Cris said. He kicked Kaka’s shin under the desk.

“It’s a confusing relationship for both of us,” Kaka agreed.

The jangle of keys at the office across the hall signaled Xabi’s arrival. Cris nearly knocked his chair over sprinting to the door and then had to arrange himself quickly to look nonchalant, leaning against the doorjamb. 

“Hi, sunshine,” he said.

Xabi gave him a look. “You have something I’m not going to like, don’t you?”

“You always think I’m out to make your life difficult,” Cris said. “I don’t know why.”

“Just tell me what it is,” Xabi said, pushing his office door open. 

“Guess!” Cris said. 

“Wonkette has this ridiculous fluff thing, that’s all,” Kaka said, coming up behind him. “Some email saying you and Iker were walking around at the amfAR gala looking, quote, ‘post-coital.’” 

He was standing close enough that Cris could smell his sweet, fruity girls’ shampoo. He’d used to make fun of Kaka about it in school, but all he’d ever gotten was a deprecating grin and _It makes my hair softer._ And it was true, Kaka’s hair was really soft.

“Oh, for _Christ’s_ ,” Xabi said, pressing his fingers hard against his temple. “What. Is this something I have to actually deal with?”

“No,” Kaka said. 

“I’m illustrating it with stick figures for you though,” Cris said.

Kaka said quickly, “You really don’t have to care. The last thing we want to do is look like we take it seriously, in fact. Only.” He coughed. “It’d be good, so I can do my job better, to know if...” He trailed off expectantly.

“To know what,” Xabi said.

“He wants to know if you and Iker have made a sex,” Cris supplied helpfully. “You, him, fuck fuck?”

A vein twitched in Xabi’s forehead. “One day,” he told Cris, his voice absolutely level. “One day, Ronaldo, when this campaign is over--”

“I know,” Cris said cheerfully. “No one will find my body, I’ve heard it before.”

“No,” Xabi said, redirecting his attention to Kaka. “No, Ricardo, I’m not having a fucking affair with fucking Iker, thank you for the fucking inquiry.”

“Is it because of his clothes?” Cris asked. “Was that how it started? His man-capris were irresistible? Did you just wanna take them off with your teeth?”

Xabi’s fingers flexed in an involuntary gesture of strangulation. 

“Okay! We’ll just let you get settled and then I’ll bring you your press clippings,” Kaka said, and put a hand on Cris’s shoulder to wheel him out of the blast radius. Xabi’s office door slammed so hard it made the windows rattle.

“You don’t have to make his life more difficult,” Kaka said. He frowned down at his press packet. “Things are really hard for him already, you know?”

Fucking Ricky. He was so _good_. “I think he needs a scapegoat, actually,” Cris said. “I like to think of myself as a human stress ball. He takes all that aggression out on me and then he can focus.”

Kaka blinked at him. “I never -- I didn’t realize you thought about it that way.”

“I have surprising depths,” Cris said. He smiled. 

After a moment Kaka’s face softened and he smiled back. “You do,” he said.

_Barça Daily Offices  
Washington, DC  
Friday, September 16th, 2011_

“How did this _happen?_ ”

The roar was impressive enough that even Puyol flinched. Pique caught his eye across the newsroom and lifted his brows, letting out a long silent whistle of awe. In their cubicles the _Barça_ staff were frozen in attitudes of mingled terror and nosiness, shoulders hunched, ears turned toward Xavi’s office.

There was a mutter, presumably Villa, and then Xavi said, low and dangerous now, “I don’t care where you _were_ , Villa, I care where you were _supposed_ to be. I’m asking why you weren’t god damn _there_. I’m asking why Talking Points Memo is the go-to source on _your story!_ ”

“ _Now_ he knows how to use Twitter,” Pique muttered, and Puyol shook his head shortly and said low, “Bojan had to call him about it last night, apparently. Frightening times.”

“Well, I don’t do the society pages,” Villa said, sounding slightly chastened but still disdainful. In the corner of the bullpen, Afellay, their new culture beat, looked up in alarm. “How should I have --”

“Oh, _I’m_ sorry,” Xavi said. “I didn’t realize I had to explain to a Pulitzer winner that reporters go where their fucking _subjects_ are. Iker Casillas was on the damn _program!_ But you’re right, Villa. You’re right. It’s my fault. It’s my fault for paying you an insane amount of money so you can dick around with your thumb up your ass while Sian Massey runs circles around you, and Gawker makes fun of us because Messi is seventy percent of our bylines, for fuck’s sake,” and there was the slam of his open palm on the desk.

“This is still my story to collect,” Villa argued. “What’s she got, one line? One thing on Twitter, ‘they were talking?’ It’s like ‘I Spy’, that’s not journalism--”

“You got _scooped_ ,” Xavi bit out. “You got scooped by a _blogger_ , while Messi covered your ass with some deadly crap about gas prices and Afellay was wandering around the Hilton asking who Sylvie van der Vaart was wearing! Another screwup like this and you’re done, Villa, I don’t care, you’re fucking done. Get out of my office.”

They heard Villa say, “Come on, Xavi--”

“ _Get out_ ,” Xavi said.

The door slammed and the entire bullpen jumped into action as if freed from a spell, picking up phones, bending diligently over laptops. Villa slouched against the wall. Pique watched him sympathetically. Xavi’s reamings-out were not minor. Even if you thought you’d made it through with your dignity and testicles intact, they had a tendency to haunt you.

When Villa barked, “Afellay!” though, Pique’s sympathy began to evaporate.

The kid’s head jerked up. He glanced around as if Villa might possibly be talking to someone else.

“Why didn’t you tell me Casillas and Xabi were with Mourinho at that idiot thing you covered yesterday?”

“I,” Afellay said. “I mean, I didn’t -- what?”

“You knew I was on that story, everyone on this damn paper knows I’m on that story, you couldn’t have, I don’t know, dropped me a text --”

“Villa,” Puyol interceded, placating, “you can’t expect the kid to know Jose Mourinho on sight. He’s not exactly Angelina Jolie.”

“Oh, right, excuse me,” Villa said crushingly, “I thought maybe since he works for the _Barça_ , I could expect him to know who the major players in this town are.”

“Sorry,” Afellay said, quietly.

“Great,” Villa said, “‘sorry’ definitely fixes it. Next time, Melissa Rivers, maybe try to keep one eye on the ball,” and he stumped off somewhere. Afellay, looking embarrassed and furious, glared stonily at his computer.

“ _Writers_ ,” Puyol said with a sigh, and went after Villa.

Pique got up and leaned over the low half-wall of Afellay’s cubicle. “Don’t worry about him,” he said, jerking his head in the direction Villa had exited. “It’s nothing personal. When Xavi yells at you, you’ll get it. It’s like _The Ring_ , you just have to pass it on to someone.”

“He _should_ yell at me,” Afellay said morosely. “Villa’s right. I dropped the ball.”

“Not your ball to drop, bro,” Pique said. “You’re Culture and Nightlife. Pictures of Rafa Nadal in a tux, a couple of words with that hot-ass Curran chick -- is she hot up close, by the way?”

“Yes,” Afellay said.

“Cool,” Pique said, making a mental note. “My point is, you don’t have to be Villa’s deputy just because he fucked up.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t _want_ to be culture and nightlife,” Afellay said bitterly. “I mean, ‘who are you wearing?’ ‘AIDS is bad?’ I took the job so I could show them that I could do it, you know? So I’d get to do something more -- substantial.” He’d been unwinding a paper clip into a line, and now he poked at his keyboard with it.

Pique watched him for a second. Then he had an idea. 

It occurred to him that the idea might be terrible. On the one hand, it’d knock Villa down a peg, which would be good for him. Plus it’d get him a little info on Cesc. On the other hand, Cesc would probably see right through it, hunt him down and punch him. He had a weirdly solid left hook.

On the _other_ other hand, Cesc punching him would be better than Cesc moping around pathetically all the time. Probably. Maybe.

This was why he didn’t have internal debates. They were boring. He went ahead and said, “Look. You wanna do something other than culture? I know a guy who was at that party.”

“Everybody in this dumb town knows a guy,” Afellay said, which was totally ungrateful.

“No, I mean, one of Casillas’s old students,” Pique said. “This guy -- my buddy -- he did the six year BA-JD at Fairfield State, was in Casillas’s seminar. They were pretty tight. I guarantee you they talked last night. He might be able to tell you if Mourinho was there, you know, like, what they were discussing.”

“Oh, great,” Afellay said bitterly. “I’ll just be like, ‘Hey, did your prof mention anything about how he’s taking bribes from some lawyer?’”

“A lead’s a lead, Afellay,” Pique said, irritated. “What do they teach in j-school these days, fucking, sass and defeatism? Do you want Cesc’s cell or not?”

“Sorry,” Afellay said, sinking even deeper into his own shoulders. “Yes. Please.”

“Good call, tiger,” Pique said, patting him absently on the head and jotting Cesc’s number down on the memo closest to hand. “While you’re at it, ask him about drugs.”


	6. Chapter 6

_The Albert Pub  
Fairfield City, FA  
Late September, 2000_

Even though the bar was just across the street from the train station Xabi was soaked by the time he pushed inside, a wet newspaper flung over his head. He shook his hair out like a dog, blinked water out of his eyes, and looked around. The place was mostly empty, half-lit in gray by the rainy morning. There were a couple of guys at the bar, a girl in a red jersey. One of the old-timers was drinking a Guinness, even though it was 8:30 in the morning and Xabi was pretty sure that was illegal.

He hung up his coat. This was the only place near campus that played football at all; that they’d be playing a fairly obscure Liga game seemed unlikely, but he’d take what he could get.

The woman behind the bar was already making him a cup of coffee by the time he edged shyly up to a stool and slung his bag underneath.

“I’m assuming,” she said, setting it in front of him.

“Good guess,” Xabi said, smiling gratefully at her. She had an Irish accent, and Xabi thought about asking her where she was from, but he didn’t. It was too early to have to talk to anyone much.

“Here for Liverpool-Wigan, are you?” she asked, nodding toward the television.

Well, it would do. “If that’s what’s on.” The coffee was strong and hot and he curled his fingers around it, breathing in the steam.

“You footie fans,” the bartender said, and rolled her eyes. “Up at this hour, in this weather, and don’t even care what we’ve got playing. Need a menu?”

“Um,” Xabi said. “Eggs? Over easy. And toast, I guess, whole wheat if you’ve got it.”

The bartender nodded and, to Xabi’s relief, retreated. He scanned the bar again.

He knew one of the people here. The sandy-haired guy on the next stool but one, forehead wrinkled over this morning’s _Barça_ and eating a breakfast that looked enormous enough for three: he was in Xabi’s poli-sci elective. God, Xabi really hoped they wouldn’t have to have some kind of awkward Oh-hey-what’s-your-name-again conversation.

The guy just looked briefly up at him though and nodded a brusque hello, so Xabi nodded back. He shuffled in his bag for his book and concentrated on his coffee.

The game started slow. He’d forgotten how _crowded_ the English game looked, all these clumps of defenders, those thundering runs and slamming tackles, and he missed San Sebastian worse than he had in a long time.

Wigan broke loose suddenly, charging into the red side of the field. Bercow shot, an awkward left-foot strike that Xabi knew would be too easy to catch; the guy from Xabi’s poli-sci class let out a stifled yowl, hands flying to the back of his head; and the Liverpool goalie, true to Xabi’s prediction, caught the ball against his chest, yelling furiously.

“And where the fuck were you, Osborne?” the guy said to the television. His arms were spread as if the team had personally aggrieved him. “Where in the fuck?”

Xabi had noticed Osborne, too -- Liverpool’s 13, the right back -- skittering up the side, like an eager dog trying to catch a frisbee that wasn’t there. He’d been doing it all half.

“He thinks he’s a winger,” Xabi said. “He’s chasing his dream. It’s sort of touching.”

“I’ll show him wingers,” the guy said, darkly. He took a ferocious bite of bacon, as if he were imagining taking a bite out of Osborne’s face. Then he looked back at Xabi, mild interest creeping into his expression. “Hey, you’re in Attwell’s Judicial Politics class with me, aren’t you?”

“Mm-hm,” Xabi said, looking back down at his eggs. Now they’d have to wave awkwardly in class, and run into each other at this bar and pretend they had anything to say to each other, the whole thing.

“Watch football?” the guy said, which was a pretty stupid question, considering.

“Well, I watch _soccer_ ,” Xabi parried.

The guy’s face cracked into a smile. He did have a nice smile, all wrinkled forehead and little creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Thought you were Spanish.”

“My parents,” Xabi said. He rubbed his wrist with his thumb. “I lived there for a while, til I was...thirteen? Fourteen. So that’s why the little accent, but no. I thought you were American and just talked sort of funny.”

“Please. Born in Fairfield City. Red white and blue to the core,” the guy said, pressing a hand to his heart. “Mum’s English, though. I went to boarding school in Liverpool for a bit.”

“Ah,” Xabi said. He took another sip of coffee. “So that’s why we share this treacherous interest in Socialist sports.”

The guy lifted his eyebrows and Xabi felt his cheeks go a little hot. Since he was a kid he’d had this defensive tendency to talk in three-dollar latinates with people he didn’t know well. Like a human thesaurus. 

But all the guy said was, “That must be it. Don’t tell Professor Attwell.”

“I won’t if you won’t,” Xabi said. 

“Stevie,” the guy said, wiping his mouth quickly with his napkin and sticking his hand out. “Steven. Gerrard. I’m a sophomore.”

“Xabi Alonso,” Xabi said, shaking it. “Freshman.” Steven’s grip was solid.

“Infants in the bar,” Steven said. “Alert the authorities.”

“I think this bar is actually English soil,” Xabi said. “Like embassies, you know. So we’re okay; the drinking age--”

“You’re funny,” Steven said. Xabi hated it when people said that -- it seemed so forced, like if you thought something was funny didn’t you usually _laugh?_ \-- but there was something sincere about Steven, something down-to-earth and open, so Xabi let himself smile back.

“You a Reds fan?” Steven asked.

Xabi pulled a little face. “Real Sociedad, in La Liga. I actually enjoy watching people pass the ball.”

“We can pass,” Steven said, defensively.

“Yeah, but I mean to their own teammates,” Xabi explained.

“Better watch yourself with that kind of talk,” Steven said warningly. “You know how dangerous we English football hooligans can be.”

“You said you’re American,” Xabi said. This was probably the longest conversation he’d had with anyone in his college career to date, other than Arteta, and he was surprised at how much he was savoring it, at how easily he’d slipped into enjoying Steven’s company.

“Wanker,” Stevie said.

“ _Pajillero_ ,” Xabi said.

“Fuck off and let me watch the game, will you?” Steven said, flicking his napkin at Xabi as if he were shooing off a dog; but he was still smiling, and Xabi felt a small warmth uncurl in his chest.

The first message was just a hangup. The second one said “Pick up your fucking phone, shit.” The third one said, “Xabi, it’s Cesc, please please call me back, what the hell call have you been on for an hour, it’s important.” There was another missed call after that, but no message, and Xabi knew in his bones and his blood and the pit of his stomach that this wasn’t like Mourinho, this was a real thing: that they were fucked, fucked, fucked.

Cesc picked up before the first ring had even cut off. “Hello. Hello?”

“Don’t say my name,” Xabi said automatically. “Are you at work?”

“Yes,” Cesc said. He sounded lost.

“Stay there. Reserve a conference room on a different floor, if you can. You have a meeting with me about -- ” He stared up at the ceiling as if there were an answer written on it. “About Raul, about what we have to do to get an endorsement.”

“That’s what I tell people?”

“Don’t tell people anything,” Xabi said. He had to just keep breathing. He had to count to whatever. “But if they ask, and you have to say something, that’s what you say. I’ll be there in -- twenty minutes, half an hour maybe. Can you handle that? Just reserve the room and sit in it until I get there.”

“Yeah,” Cesc said again. “Okay. Okay.”

“Trust me, Cesc,” Xabi said. He touched his forehead for a second. His fingers, he noted distantly, were shaking a little. “Whatever this is, I promise you I’m going to handle it. Okay? Say ‘Okay.’”

“Okay,” Cesc said, and he hung up.

The kid at the front desk led him to the conference room. Cesc was at the long table, staring at nothing. He was paler than Xabi had ever seen him, and when Xabi said his name he looked up dazedly, like he didn’t recognize the sound. His phone lay in the middle of the table, a small dark ominous lump like a land mine. Xabi locked the door.

“I got a message,” Cesc said. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Play it for me,” Xabi said calmly.

Cesc groped for the phone, dialed, handed it over.

_Hi, Mr. Fabregas, I’m calling because I work for -- my name’s Ibrahim Afellay, I work for the Barça, the Barça newspaper. I got, that is, I received some information with regards -- pertaining to your connection with, um, Iker Casillas? Anyway, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about that. So just give me a call back when you get a chance. One eight seven, two four four, three-oh-six-three. Oh, or you can email me, a-f-e-l-l-a-y at barcadaily dot com. Okay. Thanks. Bye._

Xabi played it again, then a third time. Cesc’s eyes didn’t waver from his face.

“I need a pen,” Xabi said, holding his hand out, snapping his fingers. “Paper.”

Cesc looked so pathetically relieved to have a task that it was almost painful to watch. He practically tripped over himself heading to the cabinet in the corner, tearing through it for a legal pad and an entire box of Uniballs. Xabi wrote down Afellay’s number and his email. There was blood roaring in his ears, a heavy dull thudding behind his eyes.

He hung up the phone. “Do you have any records? Time you spent with Iker, when you were where.”

“No, you told me not to,” Cesc said, bewildered. “I mean, well. They’re in my planner -- personal training sessions. I don’t know where always. You always just left me the keycards, so I thought--”

He could have laughed. Personal fucking training! “All right. What I want you to do is write down the dates and times of every personal training session you have in that planner. And any time you can remember where you and Iker were that day, write it down. Can you do that for me?”

Cesc nodded. His eyes looked huge in his drawn white face.

“Okay,” Xabi said. “I need to go out and make a couple of calls. Nothing to worry about yet. Keep the door locked, and don’t let anyone in except me. Just focus on those dates. Focus on where you were. Okay?”

“Okay,” Cesc said.

“Take a deep breath, Fabregas,” Xabi said. He drew one in himself. _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten._ Cesc exhaled slowly, through his teeth. His shoulders were still trembling minutely.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” Xabi said.

The bathroom was right down the hallway, a utilitarian affair in blue tile. Xabi slammed each stall door methodically open; no one. The last door stuck. He struck it with the side of his fist and it banged and rattled against the wall.

The restroom door, fortunately, was all right for his purposes. Xabi fumbled in his pocket for loose change, wedged a couple of coins between the hinges and the wall. Pepe had taught him that one in college. He tried the door, and was gratified to find it immovable. Then he clambered onto the sink to address the smoke detector.

It wasn’t a screw-off so he climbed back down. Some angel of fucking mercy had left a plastic bag in the garbage. He bought some band-aids from the wall dispenser to tape with, climbed back up, covered the detector, hopped down, and reached into his pocket for the packet of Lucky Strikes he’d been carrying around, untouched, for fourteen months.

His lighter wouldn’t take. He flicked it again and again, furious at the tremble in his hands, his body letting him down, even his damn lighter letting him down, the weakness of needing this cigarette, all those months, those _years_ of working so fucking hard gone, for nothing, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck--

The door vibrated briefly: someone trying to open it. There was a muffled curse from the other side. They would give up.

But there was a little pause, and a scratching; then the cascading _ting_ of metal as the pennies he’d wedged in the hinges fell to the floor. The door opened and -- why, at this point, would he still be surprised? -- Steven Gerrard was standing in the entryway, blinking at him.

Someone had wedged the damn bathroom door shut again. Reina and his fucking pennies, Stevie thought. The guy needed a productive hobby more than anyone he’d ever met. Bonsai, or stamp-collecting. He fumbled in his wallet for a credit card and slipped it into the crack between the hinges and the door, sliding it around until he hit resistance, pushing harder, and letting himself smile at the satisfying jangle of change hitting the tiles. Then he opened the door.

Stevie thought he should be surprised to see Xabi leaning against the sink, his old monogrammed Zippo caged in a cupped, shaking hand, a cigarette between his teeth; but he wasn’t. For some reason he thought, _Of course._ Xabi stared at him, his eyes feverish with exhausted frustration, and Stevie felt a peculiar friction run down his spine. Like the rough scrape of brick against his back.

He fished his keys out of his pocket and wedged the heavy FASU keyring between the hinges. Then he turned around again and waited. Xabi didn’t move.

“How bad is it?” Stevie said.

A muscle at the corner of Xabi’s jaw ticked. “Bad.”

“Personal or political?”

Xabi barked a short, awful laugh through his teeth, still tight around the unlit cigarette. “Can’t it be both?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Xabi said. He let out a breath that shuddered a little. “I don’t know.” There was a bitter surprise edging his voice, and Stevie thought it was less at his own helplessness than at finding himself saying it aloud.

“You’ve told Pepe what it is?”

Xabi stared at him like he’d sprouted an extra head. “No, Steven, no, I haven’t fucking told fucking _Pepe_. Are you insane?”

“He’s in charge of your account -- I don’t know what you hired him for, but I’m sure whatever this is, it’ll be good to work through some possibilities with him--”

“That’s not on the table, Steven,” Xabi said tightly. He bent his head again and flicked the lighter. It wouldn’t spark.

It was just _like_ him, the stubborn idiot. “Oh, good. Because you’ve clearly got so many brilliant ideas bouncing around, I can see why you’d want to handle this on your own.”

“You think I’m not capable of handling this?” Xabi said.

Oh for fuck’s sake. “No. I think you’re more than capable of prioritizing your own martyr complex over the success of your campaign.”

“I don’t have a martyr complex,” Xabi said, dangerously quiet. The muscle in his jaw worked.

“You do,” Stevie said. “You always have. To go right along with your -- your insane delusions of grandeur, like you’re some kind of superhero, like nobody else can handle --”

Xabi actually yelled, “Oh, _fuck_ you!” The lighter smashed into the wall, two feet from Stevie’s face. “You fucking -- nobody else _can_ handle it! Who are you recommending? You want me to put Reina’s ass in a fucking stroller and see if I can spare the time to teach him to give a shit? Christ! The ever-dependable Fernando Torres, or is he too busy leaping to a more lucrative account? I mean, who in the fuck, Gerrard? Are you volunteering? Because I’ve only ever known one person other than me who was _remotely_ fucking capable of dealing with a shitstorm of this magnitude, Steven, and I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t fucking _Pepe_.”

He was breathing too hard. A flush had spread, high and hot, over his cheekbones.

In the too-long silence he smeared his hands over his face; said helplessly into his palms, “And now my fucking lighter.” He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose.

“Sorry,” he said finally. “I’ve been under a lot of...look, I just, I need a second. Can you just -- can you please give me a minute alone?”

“Yeah,” Stevie said, but he didn’t move.

“Please,” Xabi said again. He sounded so tired. “I’m asking you. Just forget it.”

Stevie crouched to the tiles and picked up the lighter. He tossed it in the air once, caught it easily.

“It’s survived,” he said.

“It won’t light,” Xabi said. “I’ve been trying.”

Stevie flicked the lighter open and thumbed it: once, twice, and then the third time a thin white flame leapt from the nozzle, glowing steadily. He shut it again. The chrome was heavy and cool in his palm. The engraved _X_ rubbed against his fingers.

“Oh, fuck off, Steven,” Xabi said. His laugh was more rueful than bitter. “Of course that would happen.”

“Sod’s law,” Stevie agreed. He flipped the lighter across the room and Xabi caught it clumsily in both hands.

“When you asked if I was volunteering.” He felt like he was stepping onto a bridge he wasn’t sure would hold. “Were you serious?”

“The fuck do you mean, ‘serious,’” Xabi said. He pocketed his lighter and scrubbed at his nose with the heel of his hand. “Jesus. I’d like a pony, while we’re at it. I’d like Sociedad to win La Liga, I’m serious about that. What do you want from me.”

“I asked you first,” Stevie said.

Xabi’s mouth was tense. He said quietly, “I don’t need your pity. I’m not an idiot. I can do this myself.”

“The thing is,” Stevie said carefully, “you can do it better with me.”

Xabi said to the wall, “Why would you want to?”

Stevie thought about it for a second. “I hate my job,” he said finally, because that much was true.

“More or less than you hate me?” Xabi said.

“It’s not a matter of more or less,” Stevie said. “It’s that I hate you _differently._ ” He tried out a smile.

Xabi said, “Hah.” He covered his mouth with his hand again, pressed his fingers hard against it. His eyelids closed slowly, heavily.

“From the way you’re talking it sounds like you’re pretty much fucked regardless,” Stevie pointed out. “Worst comes to worst, at least you’ve got someone else to blame it on.”

“Steven,” Xabi said. “Last time--”

“We were younger,” Stevie said. “Things were more complicated. Look, ass, just tell me what it is.”

Xabi opened his eyes again. They rested on Stevie, dark and unwavering. Even now, that still composure unnerved him. Something twinged in the pit of his belly.

“This is stupid,” Xabi said. “You don’t want to do this. This is a stupid idea.”

“Yeah,” Stevie said. They weren’t friends anymore, and maybe that was for the best. Maybe they’d work better together without all that stuff that had got in the way last time. “Name me a better one and I’ll drop it.”

Xabi’s mouth opened, then closed. He was silent for a minute.

“Please,” he said finally. “Don’t dick me around. Okay? If you want, I don’t know. To get back at me, or whatever. Just do it some other way.”

“What the hell, Xabi,” Stevie said, staring at him. “You can’t seriously think I’d--”

“I’m just asking, okay? I’m just--”

“What are we dealing with,” Stevie said. “That’s the only question here.”

Xabi took a deep breath. Then he said, “You know Cesc Fabregas?”

When the door opened and Steven Gerrard walked in behind Xabi, all Cesc could feel was a weird, detached relief. It was like the time in high school when Pique’s car had spun out on the Beltway; at first it had been like, _Holy shit, holy shit!_ but once you actually saw the meridian racing towards you, once you were just going to hit it and there was nothing you could do, you gave up and then you felt better. Okay, he was fired, his life was kind of over, but at least maybe the weight of the lie would finally lift off of him, at least maybe he would be able to sleep and he wouldn’t feel weird and angry and sick all the time.

There were other jobs. He could work at...Barnes and Noble, maybe. Or the Krispy Kreme at Dupont, where they already knew him. He stood up and tried to look Mr. Gerrard in the eye.

“I’ll go clean out my desk,” he said. “I’m really sorry for all of this.”

“What?” Gerrard was saying, before he’d even finished the sentence, and Xabi said, “Jesus, Fabregas, sit down.”

“No, it’s okay,” Cesc said. “I’m not gonna fight it or like, sue you or anything.”

“You think you’re _fired?_ ” Gerrard said. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Xabi, who rolled his eyes heavenward and gave a little shrug, as if to say, _See?_ “What the hell for?”

“Um,” Cesc said. “Fraternizing?”

Steven Gerrard let out a startled bark of laughter. Xabi said, “For God’s sake, Cesc. It’s not the Army.”

“You’re not fired,” Mr. Gerrard said. “Seriously, please sit down.” He went to the water cooler in the corner, fished out a paper cup.

“If I’m not fired, why is he here,” Cesc muttered to Xabi.

Xabi gave him a strange look; if Cesc hadn’t known Xabi too well to believe it, he’d have thought it meant _I wish I knew._ “We used to work together,” he said. “He wants to -- uh. He wants to help. With our strategy.”

“But why,” Cesc whispered.

“Because I hate my job,” Gerrard said. He pressed the cup into Cesc’s hands and firmly returned him to his chair. The water was cool, and Cesc was surprised at how thirsty he suddenly was. “Thanks,” he said, wiping his mouth.

“Steven wants to hear the message,” Xabi said. He nodded toward the phone. “Can you--”

Cesc picked it up and dialed. They listened together, a little frown pulling Gerrard’s mouth.

“Need it again?” Xabi asked him when the telephone lady was going _To hear this message again, press four_ , but Gerrard shook his head.

“Not yet,” he said. “What’s your instinct?”

Xabi said, “We don’t know anything yet. We don’t know if this Afellay guy knows anything, or what he knows.” He sighed. “I’d like to think it’s Villa taking some new angle on the Mourinho thing, but he generally flies solo. And it’s so roundabout. I’m assuming the worst, but -- it could just be that you were in his class, you know? Did you read anything communist?”

“One time he said Ronald Reagan was a ‘delusional narcissist,’” Cesc said, unable to help smiling a little at the memory. “No, wait. A ‘delusional, narcissistic criminal asshole who couldn’t think his way out of a phone booth if you gave him directions.’”

“Oh, _Iker,_ ” Xabi muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So that kind of thing could also be in play,” he said.

“You’d lie low, you’re saying,” Gerrard said. He was looking at Cesc, curiously, appraisingly.

Xabi nodded. “Wait until we hear who else he’s talking to. If he really has this story, we’ll get more bites from him. He’ll get in contact with me, probably, and with Cris. Maybe your sister, Cesc,” and Cesc went cold.

“I don’t want her caught up in this,” he said.

“You don’t need to worry about it yet,” Xabi said. And then -- to Cesc’s immense surprise -- he turned to Gerrard and said, grudgingly, “What do you think?” The words sounded odd in his mouth.

Gerrard blinked at him for a second.

“I am _asking_ ,” Xabi said, through gritted teeth. “For your honest opinion.”

Gerrard raised his eyebrows. Then he said, “Fuck that, is what I think.”

“Well, fuck _you_ , how about,” Xabi said.

“I’m serious. You want to just sit around and wait for the Barça to tell you what your story is? Fuck that. Let’s make the story. I mean, look --” he returned his attention to Cesc, “Xabi’s told me a little, but. You’ve been seeing him a while, right?”

“I guess,” Cesc said, nervously. “Like. Two and a half years, maybe?”

“Two years!” Gerrard said, staring at Xabi.

“We can talk about it later,” Xabi said.

“Well, they’re practically married, then,” Gerrard said. “You guys are -- please, God, you guys are monogamous, right?”

“What?” Cesc said, after a stunned moment.

“No weird sex clubs, I have to clarify, stuff like that,” Gerrard said.

“No.” It was unbelievable. His skin burned with humiliation.

“Steven,” Xabi said in quiet, warning tones.

“Sorry,” Gerrard said, and then to Cesc, “Sorry, Fabregas. I’m not trying to -- all I’m saying is, here you are, you’re two upstanding citizens -- you are an upstanding citizen, right? We can talk about library fines and tax stuff later, but I mean any priors, drug habits --”

“Right, that’s definitely worth asking, because I have literally no idea how to do my job,” Xabi said.

Gerrard coughed and said, “Right,” but he was probably thinking that if Xabi had really done his job, Cesc wouldn’t be here and they wouldn’t be in this situation. Cesc thought that sometimes, too.

God, if Iker could just be here. Standing behind Cesc’s chair, maybe. Just close enough to rest one warm hand on the back of his neck. If Iker were here, Cesc would be able to handle this.

On the other hand, if Iker were here it would be incontrovertible proof of the magnitude of his fuckup. When Iker was here Cesc would have to see his jaw tighten and his eyes go all kind and sad, and he was going to say it didn’t matter or it wasn’t Cesc’s fault, it was going to be fucking awful --

Someone snapped their fingers an inch from his eyes. Cesc jumped.

“Stay with me, Fabregas,” Xabi said. “This involves you.”

“I know it does,” Cesc said sharply.

“You’re proposing what, exactly,” Xabi asked Gerrard. “A photoshoot in Vogue?”

“You _would_ get bogged down in specifics,” Gerrard said, and Xabi said exasperatedly, “Jesus, what is it with you and your inability to handle details--” and Gerrard said, “What is it with _you_ and your inability to look at the big picture long enough to brainstorm?” and Xabi said, “How the fuck do you think the big picture gets accomplished without -- God, I forgot how impossible -- sorry, Cesc, sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” Cesc said.

Actually, it was sort of heartening to see Xabi get pushed around a little. Cesc had -- inasmuch as he’d been able to expect anything in the depths of his panic -- expected him to be striding around all brusque and purposeful, like _I’ll handle it, I’ll handle it_ , wearing that grim, martyred face of his. Instead he looked pissed and resigned and distinctly flustered. It was neat.

“I’m serious, how would you suggest handling this roll-out?” he was saying now.

“We’d take a couple of days to poll and discuss--” Gerrard said.

“--Which is what I said in the first place,” Xabi objected.

“--but the first thing I’d do,” Gerrard went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “is get Pepe on board.”

“No,” Xabi said, turning sharply to him. “I told you, that’s not an option.”

“Then why did you hire him at all?”

“I hired him for _after_ the damn election,” Xabi said. “It’s a whole different ballgame then. Pepe’s good at that kind of thing, but he has zero campaign experience. Why the hell are you so --”

“He’s got a better relationship with the media than anyone else in this building,” Gerrard said. “That should be your number one priority however you decide to play this, don’t you think?"

“Really, because I think my number one priority should be -- I don't know -- actually winning this election,” Xabi said.

“Oh, shut up,” Gerrard snapped. “Obviously.”

“It doesn't seem that obvious to _you_ ,” Xabi retorted.

“What it comes down to is, if you don’t get him on board, you’re stupid. And you might be a stubborn, selfish, mercenary asshole but you aren’t stupid,” he went on, raising his voice over Xabi’s indignant protest.

Xabi started to argue: they were going to get off on some stupid tangent, Cesc knew, and there were actual things at stake, so he said, “ _Hey._ ”

Xabi and Gerrard stared at him like they couldn’t figure out where he’d even come from.

“How are we going to tell Iker?” Cesc said.

_Fairfield State University  
Castilla, FA  
March, 2009_

It was so stupid that it barely even qualified for the word “plan,” but Cesc had gone beyond caring. This was like nothing he’d experienced since he was about thirteen; all Iker Casillas had to do was look at him and he felt this -- it was so stupid -- but this shock, like lightning, this dazzling ache between his throat and his spine. He kept drifting off in the middle of other conversations, remembering the way Iker moved and spoke, all the purpose in it and the intelligence and the strength, and he would have to swim through a head-rush of painful want just to hear what the other person was saying. It was all so cheesy and ridiculous but at the same time he couldn’t help it, so whatever.

The worst part, or the best, was that he was pretty sure Iker was -- wasn’t averse to him, anyway. In class that day he’d been trying to say something about their Rawls reading, and he’d sort of tripped over his point and tried to course-correct and then lost where he was going, and Iker had said, “Christ, Fabregas, what kind of lawyer are you going to make if you keep blowing up your own strongest points?” but his voice had been fond, and his eyes, when they rested briefly on Cesc’s, had been warm and knowing. Cesc wasn’t stupid: he recognized the way Iker looked at him.

At this point there was just nothing for it anyway. He had to do something, just to get it out of his system, or he was going to have, like, a complete breakdown. So fuck it.

He packed up as slowly as possible, taking his book out of his bag and putting it back in a couple of times, until the rest of the seminar had filtered out. Then it was just him and Iker, who was sorting through his notes, studiously not looking at Cesc.

Cesc slung his bag over one shoulder and sidled up to the desk.

“Can I help you with something, Fabregas?” Iker said. He stuffed the pile of papers into his briefcase, finally glancing up.

“Um,” Cesc said. He bit his lip, partly because he was nervous and partly to see the way Iker’s eyes dropped helplessly to his mouth. “I was thinking. Do you want to, like -- to get coffee or something, some time, maybe?”

There was a minute pause in the rhythm of Iker’s packing. “To discuss your paper?”

“No,” Cesc admitted. “Just -- to get coffee. To talk. You know. Like a date, I guess.”

“I don’t think that would be appropriate,” Iker said. He struggled with the latches of his case.

“The thing is,” Cesc said carefully, “is that I think you like me.”

Iker looked at him, wild-eyed -- and dropped his keys. He swore, vanishing behind the desk, and said from beneath it, “Well, I do like you, Fabregas. You’re an excellent student, you clearly have a really -- a really good mind, you engage with the material, I enjoy having you in my class. But it just wouldn’t be right for me to --”

Cesc walked around the back of the desk. Iker was all the way under it. He stared at Cesc’s shoes for a minute, then looked up, like a cornered animal.

Cesc crouched down to him. “This is a dumb hiding place,” he said. Iker smelled wonderful, warm, like coffee and firewood. His gray sweater looked impossibly soft.

“I’m not hiding,” Iker said. There were two spots of color high on his knifeblade cheekbones. He said, in a voice softer and lower than Cesc had ever heard, “Cesc. Please.”

Cesc rested his thumb against Iker’s jaw and kissed him. He didn’t mean to. It was just the way Iker said his name.

Iker’s mouth was warm and closed. His lips were a little chapped. His sweater, under Cesc’s fingertips, was as soft as Cesc had imagined. Distantly he heard Iker draw in a hard, shuddering breath through his nose.

Then Iker’s hands were painfully tight around his wrists, shoving him away. His eyes were so dark.

“No,” he said. “Cesc. Shit. That’s not an okay thing to do.”

“You do like me,” Cesc whispered, amazed. After a kiss like that, it was impossible not to know. He could feel the blood in his wrists beating hot and hard against Iker’s fingers.

Iker paled. “Oh for God’s -- listen, no, I have completely crossed the line here. I can’t believe I let it go this far. Obviously I take full responsibility for that, but you have to--” and blah blah blah, on and on, whatever. He had a really great mouth, like everything about his face was so...carved, but his mouth was mobile, expressive --

“Hello,” Iker said. He gave him a little shake. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Not really,” Cesc admitted.

“If this happens again,” Iker said, staring him down, “I’m going to tell the Dean. I’m fucking -- I’m very serious, okay? I can’t be your teacher if you’re going to behave like this. I’m in a position of authority here, and I --”

“I’m twenty years old,” Cesc protested. “Grading is anonymous, and anyway it’s nobody’s business --”

“Cesc!” Iker practically roared. “Stop! You’re so -- God, you’re so smart, you’re so promising, you have -- you have a fucking incredible future ahead of you, all right? And you’re _so_ young. I’m not letting you throw that away on some adolescent crush, you idiot, I’m just not.”

Cesc looked at him. There was so much to object to here -- like, what was he throwing away? And how old was Iker, anyway, what, 28, 29 tops? But Iker’s face was tight with control, and the edges of his mouth were white. The frantic heartbeat Cesc could feel thudding against his skin wasn’t his own.

“Please,” Iker said. “Let this go, okay? Just be my student.”

A flood of heat washed over Cesc’s skin at that: he let his breath out. “Okay,” he said.

Iker blinked at him, searching Cesc’s face. “Really? That’s it?”

Cesc nodded.

“Okay,” Iker said. He still sounded nervous. His fingers slid off Cesc’s wrists, no faster than necessary. “Good. Uh. So could you...could you go back to the other side of the desk, please? Just give me a little space so I can get up.”

Cesc moved back. Iker stood, steadying himself on the desk, and tucked his keys into his pocket. There was still a wary intensity in his eyes. “Why are you making this so easy?” he asked, suspiciously.

“Because you told me to,” Cesc said simply.

Iker inhaled, sharp. He looked lost. He touched his briefcase as if to remind himself who he was. “Cesc,” he said hoarsely.

“Don’t worry,” Cesc said. He couldn’t help smiling, just a little. “You’re right. I’m your student. I swear, I’ll back off. I won’t do anything to make you uncomfortable.”

“Shit, Cesc,” Iker said again. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, down the side of his face. “I mean, I’m pretty uncomfortable already.”

“Sorry,” Cesc said. Their grades would be out in May; he’d be twenty-one. “I’m really sorry, Professor. It won’t happen again, I promise. If you feel like I’m doing anything, you know, creepy, or whatever, you can go to the Dean.”

“I don’t think you’re creepy,” Iker said. “I just -- I can’t. Okay?”

Cesc nodded, hefting his pack higher on his shoulder. “I’ll see you on Monday,” he said. “Have a good weekend.” He touched Iker’s whitened knuckles with two fingers, and -- oh -- the hair on Iker’s forearm prickled up at the touch, almost undetectably.

He could wait. He would wait.


	7. Prologue

  


_Washington, D.C.  
December, 2009_

Xabi called him in December. “I hear you’re in D.C.,” he’d said. “Come get a drink with me,” and though Iker hadn’t been planning to tell anyone he was in town and wasn’t sure how Xabi had found out, he’d said yes. It had been too long.

They met in the bar at the Mayflower hotel. Outside it was starting to snow, and in the dark bar the tiny flakes melted to wetness on Iker’s scarf and face. On Connecticut Avenue a guy with a trumpet was playing a melancholy “Silent Night”; every time the door opened in the music swelled up, then ebbed away again.

Xabi was exquisitely punctual, as usual, although five weeks out from the election he still had that red-rimmed campaigner’s pallor, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He nodded hello to Iker, slid onto the bar stool in a way that made it clear he’d been in many times before, and ordered two glasses of the 16-year Glenfiddich.

“Congratulations on your loss,” Iker said when they were settled. A group of suited guys in a deep mahogany booth at one oak-paneled corner of the room were looking at him -- no, at Xabi -- and whispering to each other.

“Thank you,” Xabi said, a corner of his mouth curving up. He took a long swallow of his scotch.

“I mean it. You should never, ever have done that well. You should have crashed and burned. Running Rafa Benitez in the Jersey seventh, _again_? Should’ve had your asses handed to you, man, and you made it a nailbiter.”

“I know,” Xabi said. “Believe me.”

“Well, cheers,” Iker said. He knocked his glass against Xabi’s. “To the newest hotshot insider in D.C.” They drank. The trumpeter outside had moved on to “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.”

“I saw your photo in the _Hill_ 's Hot List, by the way,” Iker said, luxuriating a little in the warm glow of whisky. “Very dapper. Fourteenth-best-looking guy in D.C. -- not bad. My neighbor’s kid has it taped inside her locker, next to Nick Jonas.”

“Look,” Xabi said abruptly, swiveling on his barstool. “I want to ask you something. How much longer do you want to do state politics?”

“Well,” Iker said, and while he was still thinking of what the hell he was going to say Xabi went on, “I’m asking because I want you to run for Senate. U.S. Senate, I mean.”

Iker, who had just been lifting his drink for a sip, swallowed half a glass of premium single-malt Scotch. His chest and throat burst briefly into flames, and when he stopped coughing -- and Xabi stopped pounding him helpfully on the back -- he croaked, “What.”

“I want you to run against Wayne Rooney in two years,” Xabi said, signaling the bartender for another round. “And I want you to win.”

Iker gaped at him. “You’re insane.”

“I’m really not,” Xabi said. “Think back. I know we haven’t seen each other in a while, but I haven’t changed. I am deeply, even pathologically, rational.” There was a strange kind of bitterness in his voice.

“This is a fucking joke,” Iker said. “You don’t go from two terms in the statehouse to a Senate seat at the age of thirty.”

“Most people don’t,” Xabi agreed. “You’re going to.”

“Why me?” Iker asked. He felt a little like he was hallucinating. “I’m nobody, man, I’m a State senator from Fairfield. You -- you’re huge, don’t you know that? After this campaign? I mean, Jesus. You and Steven Gerrard made Malcolm Glazer fight tooth and nail for the district he’s held for twenty years -- the same place he curb-stomped you four years ago. Rachel Maddow calls you ‘the QB.’ You’ve got bigger fish.”

“I don’t want bigger fish,” Xabi said. “I’m not hungry for them.”

There was a little pause. “So you’re hungry for me,” Iker said.

“That came out a little more sexual than I was intending,” Xabi admitted.

“Why,” Iker said again.

“Because,” Xabi said. He settled an elbow on the bar, lifting his fingers to tick things off. “You’re a successful liberal politician in a red state, everyone likes those. Raul Gonzalez knows you and he loves you, that’ll be huge. You look good on TV; you dress like a fourteen-year-old, but if you cooperate with me that can be a pretty straightforward fix. You have a really great profile for commemorative plateware.”

“Fuck off,” Iker said, punching his arm. “I get why the smooth political operative wants me to run. I’m asking my friend.”

“Okay,” Xabi said seriously. He dropped his hand and looked away for a second. Then he looked back to Iker. “The country needs leaders and you’re a fucking good one. You stand for what you believe in, even when it’s boring or ugly, but you can still make compromises when you have to. You get shit done; it’s not about the Party. You’re passionate, you’re not jaded, which is incredible. And you’re _smart_. You’re so fucking smart, Iker,” and color was coming to his face, finally; his eyes, the same dark amber as his drink, were sober and aglow. “You’re serious. You matter. You should be in the Senate.” He smiled at last, the warm unrestrained smile that changed his face entirely. “And I can get you there.”

They looked at each other.

Then Xabi nodded toward the opening door, where the strains of the trumpeter floated in. “Hear that?” he said. “ _Joyful and triumphant_...”

“You still can’t sing,” Iker said, but there was an excitement he couldn’t tamp down quickening his heartbeat. Xabi caught it in his eyes and grinned wholeheartedly back, lifting his glass.

“All we faithful,” he said, and they drank to it together.

  


**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I am in no way qualified to write an inside-baseball AU about the political world in D.C.; this is a love-hate letter to my hometown more than anything else. The world is my beta, basically, so please let me know if anything rings false! (Yes, I'm looking at you, congressional aide paging creepily through the internet during your workday. You know the government can see you do that, don't you?) For example, AFAIK there is absolutely no reason a first-term Senate campaign would have a DC headquarters? BUT I WANTED IT THERE. Whatever. Let’s say that Fairfield is, like, basically Maryland but republican-er, so I can put my HQ -- and everything else -- wherever I damn well please.
> 
> 2\. Full, illustrated, terrifyingly-comprehensive cast list is [here](http://dorkorific.livejournal.com/81323.html) and will be updated as necessary.


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